Quote

Clay lies still, but blood's a rover Breath's aware that will not keep. Up, lad: when the journey's over then there'll be time enough to sleep.

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
Sleep
Clay
Lying
Breath
Keep
Breaths
Stills
Aware
Still
Travel
Enough
Lies
Time
Journey
Rover
Blood
Lad

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The house of delusions is cheap to build but drafty to live in.
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To justify God's ways to man.
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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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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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A moment's thought would have shown him. But a moment is a long time, and thought is a painful process.
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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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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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They say my verse is sad: no wonder Its narrow measure spans Tears of eternity, and sorrow, Not mine. but man's.
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I could no more define poetry than a terrier can define a rat.
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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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Earth and high heaven are fixed of old and founded strong.
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Loveliest of trees, the cherry now Is hung with bloom along the bough.
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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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Poetry is not the thing said, but the way of saying it.
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Nature, not content with denying him the ability to think, has endowed him with the ability to write.
A. E. Housman
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When the journey's over/There'll be time enough to sleep.
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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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Oh when I was in love with you, Then I was clean and brave, And miles around the wonder grew How well did I behave. And now the fancy passes by, And nothing will remain, And miles around they'll say that I Am quite myself 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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Ten thousand times I've done my best and all's to do again.
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