In my own shire, if I was sad, 
Homely comforters I had: 
The earth, because my heart was sore, 
Sorrowed for the son she bore; 
And standing hills, long to remain, 
Shared their short-lived comrade's pain 
And bound for the same bourn as I, 
On every road I wandered by, 
Trod beside me, close and dear, 
The beautiful and death-struck year: 
Whether in the woodland brown 
I heard the beechnut rustle down, 
And saw the purple crocus pale 
Flower about the autumn dale; 
Or littering far the fields of May 
Lady-smocks a-bleaching lay, 
And like a skylit water stood 
The bluebells in the azured wood. 

Yonder, lightening other loads, 
The seasons range the country roads, 
But here in London streets I ken 
No such helpmates, only men; 
And these are not in plight to bear, 
If they would, another's care. 
They have enough as 'tis: I see 
In many an eye that measures me 
The mortal sickness of a mind 
Too unhappy to be kind. 
Undone with misery, all they can 
Is to hate their fellow man; 
And till they drop they needs must still 
Look at you and wish you ill.