I find Cambridge an asylum, in every sense of the word.
A. E. HOUSMANGood religious poetry… is likely to be most justly appreciated and most discriminately relished by the undevout.
More A. E. Housman Quotes
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Nature, not content with denying him the ability to think, has endowed him with the ability to write.
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Clay lies still, but blood’s a rover; Breath’s aware that will not keep. Up, lad: when the journey’s over then there’ll be time enough to sleep.
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I do not choose the right word, I get rid of the wrong one.
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Oh, ’tis jesting, dancing, drinking Spins the heavy world around.
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With rue my heart is laden For golden friends I had, For many a rose-lipped maiden And many a lightfoot lad.
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Earth and high heaven are fixed of old and founded strong.
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But men at whiles are sober And think by fits and starts. And if they think, they fasten Their hands upon their hearts.
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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.
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And malt does more than Milton can to justify God’s ways to man.
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Who made the world I cannot tell; ‘Tis made, and here am I in hell. My hand, though now my knuckles bleed, I never soiled with such a deed.
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Loveliest of trees, the cherry now Is hung with bloom along the bough.
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Shoulder the sky, my lad, and drink your ale.
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In every American there is an air of incorrigible innocence, which seems to conceal a diabolical cunning.
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All knots that lovers tie Are tied to sever. Here shall your sweetheart lie, Untrue for ever.
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Ten thousand times I’ve done my best and all’s to do again.
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He would not stay for me, and who can wonder? He would not stay for me to stand and gaze. I shook his hand, and tore my heart in sunder, And went with half my life about my ways.
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All knowledge is precious whether or not it serves the slightest human use.
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June suns, you cannot store them To warm the winter’s cold, The lad that hopes for heaven Shall fill his mouth with mould.
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To justify God’s ways to man.
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Do not ever read books about versification: no poet ever learnt it that way. If you are going to be a poet, it will come to you naturally and you will pick up all you need from reading poetry.
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Housman is one of my heroes and always has been. He was a detestable and miserable man. Arrogant, unspeakably lonely, cruel, and so on, but and absolutely marvellous minor poet, I think, and a great scholar.
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The thoughts of others Were light and fleeting, Of lovers’ meeting Or luck or fame. Mine were of trouble, And mine were steady; So I was ready When trouble came.
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The rainy Pleiads wester Orion plunges prone, And midnight strikes and hastens, And I lie down alone.
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Oh I have been to Ludlow fair, and left my necktie God knows where. And carried half way home, or near, pints and quarts of Ludlow beer.
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They say my verse is sad: no wonder; Its narrow measure spans Tears of eternity, and sorrow, Not mine. but man’s.
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White in the moon the long road lies.
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