Tomorrow, more’s the pity, Away we both must hie, To air the ditty and to earth I.
A. E. HOUSMANAnd silence sounds no worse than cheers After earth has stopped the ears.
More A. E. Housman Quotes
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I find Cambridge an asylum, in every sense of the word.
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I could no more define poetry than a terrier can define a rat.
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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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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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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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And silence sounds no worse than cheers After earth has stopped the ears.
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Poetry is not the thing said, but the way of saying it.
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But 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.
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I do not choose the right word, I get rid of the wrong one.
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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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When the journey’s over, There’ll be time enough to sleep.
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Shoulder the sky, my lad, and drink your ale.
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The thoughts of others Were light and fleeting, Of lovers’ meeting Or luck or fame. Mine were of trouble, And mine were steady; So I was ready When trouble came.
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The house of delusions is cheap to build but drafty to live in.
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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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Ale, man, ale’s the stuff to drink for fellows whom it hurts to think.
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Strapped, 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.
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All knots that lovers tie Are tied to sever. Here shall your sweetheart lie, Untrue for ever.
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Loveliest of trees, the cherry now Is hung with bloom along the bough.
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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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Ten thousand times I’ve done my best and all’s to do again.
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Give crowns and pounds and guineas But not your heart away; Give pearls away and rubies, But keep your fancy free.
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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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Good religious poetry… is likely to be most justly appreciated and most discriminately relished by the undevout.
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Stone, steel, dominions pass, Faith too, no wonder; So leave alone the grass That I am under.
A. E. HOUSMAN