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Therefore, since the world has still Much good, but much less good than ill, And while the sun and moon endure Luck's a chance, but trouble's sure, I'd face it as a wise man would, And train for ill and not for good.

A. E. Housman

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A. E. Housman
Age: 77 †
Born: 1859
Born: January 1
Died: 1936
Died: January 1
Classical Philologist
Classical Scholar
Poet
University Teacher
Writer
Worcs
A. E. Housman
World
Faces
Moon
Less
Therefore
Stills
Wise
Lad
Still
Trouble
Ill
Much
Since
Endure
Good
Sure
Luck
Would
Face
Train
Men
Chance
Sun

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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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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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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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We now to peace and darkness And earth and thee restore Thy creature that thou madest And wilt cast forth no more.
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Luck's a chance, but trouble's sure.
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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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Into my hear an air that kills through yon far country blows what are those blue remembered hills what spires,what farms are those? that is the land of lost content I can see it shining plain the happy highways where I went and cannot come again.
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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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If a man will comprehend the richness and variety of the universe, and inspire his mind with a due measure of wonder and awe, he must contemplate the human intellect not only on its heights of genius but in its abysses of ineptitude.
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And malt does more than Milton can to justify God's ways to man.
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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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There, by the starlit fences The wanderer halts and hears My soul that lingers sighing About the glimmering weirs.
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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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Do not ever read books about versification: no poet ever learnt it that way. If you are going to be a poet, it will come to you naturally and you will pick up all you need from reading poetry.
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Happy bridegroom, Hesper brings All desired and timely things. All whom morning sends to roam, Hesper loves to lead them home. Home return who him behold, Child to mother, sheep to fold, Bird to nest from wandering wide: Happy bridegroom, seek your bride.
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The bells they sound on Bredon, And still the steeples hum. Come all to church, good people- Oh, noisy bells, be dumb I hear you, I will come.
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Could man be drunk for ever With liquor, love, or fights, Lief should I rouse at morning And lief lie down of nights. But men at whiles are sober And think by fits and starts, And if they think, they fasten Their hands upon their hearts.
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There, like the wind through woods in riot, Through him the gale of life blew high The tree of man was never quiet: Then 'twas the Roman, now 'tis I.
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Ten thousand times I've done my best and all's to do again.
A. E. Housman
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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.
A. E. Housman