Tell me not here, it needs not saying



Tell me not here, it needs not saying,
What tune the enchantress plays
In aftermaths of soft September
Or under blanching mays,
For she and I were long acquainted
And I knew all her ways.

On russet floors, by waters idle,
The pine lets fall its cone;
The cuckoo shouts all day at nothing
In leafy dells alone;
And traveller’s joy beguiles in autumn
Hearts that have lost their own.

On acres of the seeded grasses
The changing burnish heaves;
Or marshalled under moons of harvest
Stand still all night the sheaves;
Or beeches strip in storms for winter
And stain the wind with leaves.

Posses, as I possessed a season,
The countries I resign,
Where over elmy plains the highway
Would mount the hills and shine,
And full of shade the pillared forest
Would murmur and be mine.

For nature, heartless, witless nature,
Will neither care nor know
What stranger’s feet may find the meadow
And trespass there and go,
Nor ask amid the dews of morning
If they are mine or no.

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Submitted on May 13, 2011

Modified on April 22, 2023

52 sec read
222

Quick analysis:

Scheme ABCBXB XDADXD XEFECE XGXGFG CHHHAH
Closest metre Iambic tetrameter
Characters 946
Words 176
Stanzas 5
Stanza Lengths 6, 6, 6, 6, 6

Alfred Edward Housman

Alfred Edward Housman, usually known as A. E. Housman, was an English classical scholar and poet, best known to the general public for his cycle of poems A Shropshire Lad.  more…

All Alfred Edward Housman poems | Alfred Edward Housman Books

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    "Tell me not here, it needs not saying" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 28 Mar. 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem/911/tell-me-not-here,-it-needs-not-saying>.

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