XXX. SINNER'S RUE

By Alfred Edward Housman

I walked alone and thinking,

And faint the nightwind blew

And stirred on mounds at crossways

The flower of sinner's rue.

Where the roads part they bury

Him that his own hand slays,

And so the weed of sorrow

Springs at the four cross ways.

By night I plucked it hueless,

When morning broke‘ twas blue:

Blue at my breast I fastened

The flower of sinner's rue.

It seemed a herb of healing,

A balsam and a sign,

Flower of a heart whose trouble

Must have been worse than mine.

Dead clay that did me kindness,

I can do none to you,

But only wear for breastknot

The flower of sinner's rue.