The average man, if he meddles with criticism at all, is a conservative critic.
A. E. HOUSMANThe average man, if he meddles with criticism at all, is a conservative critic.
A. E. HOUSMANThe 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.
A. E. HOUSMANLuck’s a chance, but trouble’s sure.
A. E. HOUSMANAnd silence sounds no worse than cheers After earth has stopped the ears.
A. E. HOUSMANTell 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. HOUSMANGreat 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.
A. E. HOUSMANAnd silence sounds no worse than cheers After earth has stopped the ears.
A. E. HOUSMANBut men at whiles are sober And think by fits and starts. And if they think, they fasten Their hands upon their hearts.
A. E. HOUSMANThey carry back bright to the coiner the mintage of man,The lads that will die in their glory and never be old.
A. E. HOUSMANAll knots that lovers tie Are tied to sever. Here shall your sweetheart lie, Untrue for ever.
A. E. HOUSMANStone, steel, dominions pass, Faith too, no wonder; So leave alone the grass That I am under.
A. E. HOUSMANYou 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. HOUSMANGood religious poetry… is likely to be most justly appreciated and most discriminately relished by the undevout.
A. E. HOUSMANExperience 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.
A. E. HOUSMANThey 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.
A. E. HOUSMANThere, by the starlit fences The wanderer halts and hears My soul that lingers sighing About the glimmering weirs.
A. E. HOUSMAN