You smile upon your friend to-day, To-day his ills are over; You hearken to the lover’s say, And happy is the lover. ‘Tis late to hearken, late to smile, But better late than never: I shall have lived a little while Before I die for ever.
A. E. HOUSMANAll knowledge is precious whether or not it serves the slightest human use.
More A. E. Housman Quotes
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And malt does more than Milton can to justify God’s ways to man.
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This is for all ill-treated fellows Unborn and unbegot, For them to read when they’re in trouble And I am not.
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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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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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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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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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Life, to be sure, is nothing much to lose, But young men think it is, and we were young.
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Earth and high heaven are fixed of old and founded strong.
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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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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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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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Loveliest of trees, the cherry now Is hung with bloom along the bough.
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When the journey’s over, There’ll be time enough to sleep.
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Even when poetry has a meaning, as it usually has, it may be inadvisable to draw it out. Perfect understanding will sometimes almost extinguish pleasure.
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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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All knots that lovers tie Are tied to sever. Here shall your sweetheart lie, Untrue for ever.
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Therefore, since the world has still Much good, but much less good than ill.
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I find Cambridge an asylum, in every sense of the word.
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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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All knowledge is precious whether or not it serves the slightest human use.
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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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Good religious poetry… is likely to be most justly appreciated and most discriminately relished by the undevout.
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Luck’s a chance, but trouble’s sure.
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Three minutes thought would suffice to find this out; but thought is irksome and three minutes is a long time.
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Shoulder the sky, my lad, and drink your ale.
A. E. HOUSMAN