Hope lies to mortals And most believe her, But man’s deceiver Was never mine.
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Hope lies to mortals And most believe her, But man’s deceiver Was never mine.
A. E. HOUSMANHousman 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.
A. E. HOUSMANYou 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. HOUSMANThat is the land of lost content, I see it shining plain, the happy highways where I went and cannot come again.
A. E. HOUSMANThree minutes thought would suffice to find this out; but thought is irksome and three minutes is a long time.
A. E. HOUSMANStrapped, 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.
A. E. HOUSMANBut 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.
A. E. HOUSMANThe rainy Pleiads wester Orion plunges prone, And midnight strikes and hastens, And I lie down alone.
A. E. HOUSMANStone, steel, dominions pass, Faith too, no wonder; So leave alone the grass That I am under.
A. E. HOUSMANDo 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. HOUSMANThe average man, if he meddles with criticism at all, is a conservative critic.
A. E. HOUSMANWhite in the moon the long road lies.
A. E. HOUSMANShoulder the sky, my lad, and drink your ale.
A. E. HOUSMANNature, not content with denying him the ability to think, has endowed him with the ability to write.
A. E. HOUSMANI 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.
A. E. HOUSMANWith rue my heart is laden For golden friends I had, For many a rose-lipped maiden And many a lightfoot lad.
A. E. HOUSMAN