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Oh I have been to Ludlow fair, and left my necktie God knows where. And carried half way home, or near, pints and quarts of Ludlow beer.

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
Beer
Near
Fairs
Fair
Half
Necktie
Left
Neckties
Home
Pints
Way
Carried

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I do not choose the right word, I get rid of the wrong one.
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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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Oh who is that young sinner with the handcuffs on his wrist? And what has he been after that they groan and shake their fists? And wherefore is he wearing such a conscience-stricken air? Oh they're taking him to prison for the colour of his hair.
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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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Good religious poetry... is likely to be most justly appreciated and most discriminately relished by the undevout.
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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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Oh, 'tis jesting, dancing, drinking Spins the heavy world around.
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Ten thousand times I've done my best and all's to do again.
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White in the moon the long road lies.
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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.
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'Tis spring come out to ramble The hilly brakes around, For under thorn and bramble About the hollow ground The primroses are found. And there's the windflower chilly With all the winds at play, And there's the Lenten lily That has not long to stay And dies on Easter day.
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Look not in my eyes, for fear They mirror true the sight I see, And there you find your face too clear And love it and be lost like me.
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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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In every American there is an air of incorrigible innocence, which seems to conceal a diabolical cunning.
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Who made the world I cannot tell 'Tis made, and here am I in hell. My hand, though now my knuckles bleed, I never soiled with such a deed.
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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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There, by the starlit fences The wanderer halts and hears My soul that lingers sighing About the glimmering weirs.
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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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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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