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.
A. E. HOUSMANLoveliest of trees, the cherry now Is hung with bloom along the bough.
More A. E. Housman Quotes
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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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Hope lies to mortals And most believe her, But man’s deceiver Was never mine.
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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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I do not choose the right word, I get rid of the wrong one.
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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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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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Luck’s a chance, but trouble’s sure.
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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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There, by the starlit fences The wanderer halts and hears My soul that lingers sighing About the glimmering weirs.
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They put arsenic in his meat And stared aghast to watch him eat; They poured strychnine in his cup And shook to see him drink it up.
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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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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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Tomorrow, more’s the pity, Away we both must hie, To air the ditty and to earth I.
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There, like the wind through woods in riot, Through him the gale of life blew high; The tree of man was never quiet: Then ’twas the Roman, now ’tis I.
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To justify God’s ways to man.
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I think that to transfuse emotion – not to transmit thought but to set up in the reader’s sense a vibration corresponding to what was felt by the writer – is the peculiar function of poetry.
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Experience has taught me, when I am shaving of a morning, to keep watch over my thoughts, because, if a line of poetry strays into my memory, my skin bristles so that the razor ceases to act.
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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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White in the moon the long road lies.
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Luck’s a chance, but trouble’s sure.
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Great literature should do some good to the reader: must quicken his perception though dull, and sharpen his discrimination though blunt, and mellow the rawness of his personal opinions.
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Earth and high heaven are fixed of old and founded strong.
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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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When the journey’s over, There’ll be time enough to sleep.
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Ten thousand times I’ve done my best and all’s to do again.
A. E. HOUSMAN