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.
A. E. HOUSMANThe 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.
More A. E. Housman Quotes
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Stone, steel, dominions pass, Faith too, no wonder; So leave alone the grass That I am under.
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But if you ever come to a road where danger; Or guilt or anguish or shame’s to share. Be good to the lad who loves you true, And the soul that was born to die for you; And whistle and I’ll be there.
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Strapped, noosed, nighing his hour, He stood and counted them and cursed his luck; And then the clock collected in the tower Its strength, and struck.
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Now hollow fires burn out to black, And lights are guttering low: Square your shoulders, lift your pack And leave your friends and go.
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The average man, if he meddles with criticism at all, is a conservative critic.
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They carry back bright to the coiner the mintage of man,The lads that will die in their glory and never be old.
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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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White in the moon the long road lies.
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I, a stranger and afraid, in a world I never made.
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And how am I to face the odds Of man’s bedevilment and God’s? I, a stranger and afraid In a world I never made.
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On Wenlock Edge the wood’s in trouble;His forest fleece the Wrekin heaves;The wind it plies the saplings double, And thick on Severn snow the leaves.
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Give crowns and pounds and guineas But not your heart away; Give pearls away and rubies, But keep your fancy free.
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Shoulder the sky, my lad, and drink your ale.
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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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Poetry is not the thing said, but the way of saying it.
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That is the land of lost content, I see it shining plain, the happy highways where I went and cannot come again.
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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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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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When the journey’s over/There’ll be time enough to sleep.
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I could no more define poetry than a terrier can define a rat.
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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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Ale, man, ale’s the stuff to drink for fellows whom it hurts to think.
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Some men are more interesting than their books but my book is more interesting than its man.
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And malt does more than Milton can 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.
A. E. HOUSMAN