You 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.
More A. E. Housman Quotes
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Poetry is not the thing said, but the way of saying it.
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Luck’s a chance, but trouble’s sure.
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I, a stranger and afraid, in a world I never made.
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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 laws of God, the laws of man, He may keep that will and can; Not I: let God and man decree Laws for themselves and not for me.
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Ten thousand times I’ve done my best and all’s to do again.
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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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When the journey’s over, There’ll be time enough to sleep.
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Oh, ’tis jesting, dancing, drinking Spins the heavy world around.
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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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I do not choose the right word, I get rid of the wrong one.
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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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Ale, man, ale’s the stuff to drink for fellows whom it hurts to think.
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Luck’s a chance, but trouble’s sure.
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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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And silence sounds no worse than cheers After earth has stopped the ears.
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The house of delusions is cheap to build but drafty to live in.
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Earth and high heaven are fixed of old and founded strong.
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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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White in the moon the long road lies.
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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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That is the land of lost content, I see it shining plain, the happy highways where I went and cannot come again.
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I could no more define poetry than a terrier can define a rat.
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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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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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Shoulder the sky, my lad, and drink your ale.
A. E. HOUSMAN