Quote

'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.

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
Found
April
Brakes
Around
Winds
Chilly
Come
Hollow
Lily
Play
Ground
Thorn
Long
Spring
Brake
Wind
Springtime
Hilly
Stay
Lilies
Lenten
Dies
Easter
Ramble

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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.
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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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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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Tomorrow, more's the pity, Away we both must hie, To air the ditty and to earth I.
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The rainy Pleiads wester Orion plunges prone, And midnight strikes and hastens, And I lie down alone.
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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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Therefore, since the world has still Much good, but much less good than ill
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The mortal sickness of a mind too unhappy to be kind.
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Shoulder the sky, my lad, and drink your ale.
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He would not stay for me, and who can wonder? He would not stay for me to stand and gaze. I shook his hand, and tore my heart in sunder, And went with half my life about my ways.
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The average man, if he meddles with criticism at all, is a conservative critic.
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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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Some men are more interesting than their books but my book is more interesting than its man.
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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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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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There, by the starlit fences The wanderer halts and hears My soul that lingers sighing About the glimmering weirs.
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I find Cambridge an asylum, in every sense of the word.
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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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The laws of God, the laws of man, He may keep that will and can Not I: let God and man decree Laws for themselves and not for me.
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