When the journey’s over/There’ll be time enough to sleep.
A. E. HOUSMANI do not choose the right word, I get rid of the wrong one.
More A. E. Housman Quotes
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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.
A. E. HOUSMAN -
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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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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The mortal sickness of a mind too unhappy to be kind.
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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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There, by the starlit fences The wanderer halts and hears My soul that lingers sighing About the glimmering weirs.
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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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White in the moon the long road lies.
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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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Nature, not content with denying him the ability to think, has endowed him with the ability to write.
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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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The fairies break their dances And leave the printed lawn.
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Three minutes thought would suffice to find this out; but thought is irksome and three minutes is a long time.
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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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Therefore, since the world has still Much good, but much less good than ill.
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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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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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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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And silence sounds no worse than cheers After earth has stopped the ears.
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Luck’s a chance, but trouble’s sure.
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Oh, ’tis jesting, dancing, drinking Spins the heavy world around.
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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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Shoulder the sky, my lad, and drink your ale.
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To justify God’s ways to man.
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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.
A. E. HOUSMAN