“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.”

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.

I do not choose the right word, I get rid of the wrong one.

When the journey’s over, There’ll be time enough to sleep.

To justify God’s ways to man.

That is the land of lost content, I see it shining plain, the happy highways where I went and cannot come again.

Therefore, since the world has still Much good, but much less good than ill.

Nature, not content with denying him the ability to think, has endowed him with the ability to write.

Ten thousand times I’ve done my best and all’s to do again.

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.

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.

Luck’s a chance, but trouble’s sure.

All knots that lovers tie Are tied to sever. Here shall your sweetheart lie, Untrue for ever.

Oh, ’tis jesting, dancing, drinking Spins the heavy world around.

Now hollow fires burn out to black, And lights are guttering low: Square your shoulders, lift your pack And leave your friends and go.

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.

Some men are more interesting than their books but my book is more interesting than its man.