When the journey’s over, There’ll be time enough to sleep.
A. E. HOUSMANGood religious poetry… is likely to be most justly appreciated and most discriminately relished by the undevout.
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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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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In every American there is an air of incorrigible innocence, which seems to conceal a diabolical cunning.
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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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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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With rue my heart is laden For golden friends I had, For many a rose-lipped maiden And many a lightfoot lad.
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Loveliest of trees, the cherry now Is hung with bloom along the bough.
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June suns, you cannot store them To warm the winter’s cold, The lad that hopes for heaven Shall fill his mouth with mould.
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Shoulder the sky, my lad, and drink your ale.
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Now hollow fires burn out to black, And lights are guttering low: Square your shoulders, lift your pack And leave your friends and go.
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The mortal sickness of a mind too unhappy to be kind.
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The fairies break their dances And leave the printed lawn.
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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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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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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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Ale, man, ale’s the stuff to drink for fellows whom it hurts to think.
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And silence sounds no worse than cheers After earth has stopped the ears.
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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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Luck’s a chance, but trouble’s sure.
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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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Therefore, since the world has still Much good, but much less good than ill.
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I do not choose the right word, I get rid of the wrong one.
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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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There, by the starlit fences The wanderer halts and hears My soul that lingers sighing About the glimmering weirs.
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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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I could no more define poetry than a terrier can define a rat.
A. E. HOUSMAN