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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.

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
Angry
Shoulder
Bears
Beer
Failing
Shoulders
Drink
Dust
Proud
Bear
Trouble
Fail
Ale
Shall
Sky
Lad
Must
Eternity
Troubles

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Ten thousand times I've done my best and all's to do again.
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Three minutes thought would suffice to find this out but thought is irksome and three minutes is a long time.
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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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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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And malt does more than Milton can to justify God's ways to man.
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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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These, in the day when heaven was falling, The hour when earth's foundations fled, Followed their mercenary calling And took their wages and are dead. The British regulars who made the retreat from Mons, beginning August 24, 1914.
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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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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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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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But if you ever come to a road where danger Or guilt or anguish or shame's to share. Be good to the lad who loves you true, And the soul that was born to die for you And whistle and I'll be there.
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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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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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With rue my heart is laden For golden friends I had, For many a rose-lipped maiden And many a lightfoot lad.
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Life, to be sure, is nothing much to lose, But young men think it is, and we were young.
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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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To justify God's ways to man.
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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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