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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.
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
Cannot
Nostalgia
Come
Plain
Content
Shining
Went
Land
Happy
Lad
Lost
Highways
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I do not choose the right word, I get rid of the wrong one.
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Therefore, since the world has still Much good, but much less good than ill
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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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The house of delusions is cheap to build but drafty to live in.
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Ten thousand times I've done my best and all's to do again.
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I find Cambridge an asylum, in every sense of the word.
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All knowledge is precious whether or not it serves the slightest human use.
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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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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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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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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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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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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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Nature, not content with denying him the ability to think, has endowed him with the ability to write.
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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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Some men are more interesting than their books but my book is more interesting than its man.
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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
A. E. Housman
Ale, man, ale's the stuff to drink for fellows whom it hurts to think.
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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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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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