Poetry is not the thing said, but the way of saying it.
A. E. HOUSMANThe troubles of our proud and angry dust are from eternity, and shall not fail. Bear them we can, and if we can we must. Shoulder the sky, my lad, and drink your ale.
More A. E. Housman Quotes
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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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Look not in my eyes, for fear They mirror true the sight I see, And there you find your face too clear And love it and be lost like me.
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Here dead lie we because we did not choose to live and shame the land from which we sprung. Life, to be sure, is nothing much to lose; but young men think it is, and we were young.
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Ten thousand times I’ve done my best and all’s to do again.
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Lovers lying two and two Ask not whom they sleep beside, And the bridegroom all night through Never turns him to the bride.
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White in the moon the long road lies.
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The mortal sickness of a mind too unhappy to be kind.
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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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Stone, steel, dominions pass, Faith too, no wonder; So leave alone the grass That I am under.
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Luck’s a chance, but trouble’s sure.
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Earth and high heaven are fixed of old and founded strong.
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There, by the starlit fences The wanderer halts and hears My soul that lingers sighing About the glimmering weirs.
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The troubles of our proud and angry dust are from eternity, and shall not fail. Bear them we can, and if we can we must. Shoulder the sky, my lad, and drink your ale.
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A moment’s thought would have shown him. But a moment is a long time, and thought is a painful process.
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All knowledge is precious whether or not it serves the slightest human use.
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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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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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And malt does more than Milton can to justify God’s ways to man.
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Hope lies to mortals And most believe her, But man’s deceiver Was never mine.
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I find Cambridge an asylum, in every sense of the word.
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Stars, I have seen them fall, But when they drop and die No star is lost at all From all the star-sown sky. The toil of all that be Helps not the primal fault; It rains into the sea And still the sea is salt.
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Give me a land of boughs in leaf A land of trees that stand; Where trees are fallen there is grief; I love no leafless land.
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Loveliest of trees, the cherry now Is hung with bloom along the bough.
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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.
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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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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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