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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.

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
Black
Burn
Fires
Light
Lifts
Pack
Shoulders
Packs
Lows
Hollow
Friendship
Square
Leave
Squares
Fire
Lift
Friends
Lights

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I find Cambridge an asylum, in every sense of the word.
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Give me a land of boughs in leaf A land of trees that stand Where trees are fallen there is grief I love no leafless land.
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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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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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The mortal sickness of a mind too unhappy to be kind.
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Loveliest of trees, the cherry now Is hung with bloom along the bough.
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Hope lies to mortals And most believe her, But man's deceiver Was never mine.
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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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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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And silence sounds no worse than cheers After earth has stopped the ears.
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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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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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The average man, if he meddles with criticism at all, is a conservative critic.
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Therefore, since the world has still Much good, but much less good than ill, And while the sun and moon endure Luck's a chance, but trouble's sure, I'd face it as a wise man would, And train for ill and not for good.
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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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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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I could no more define poetry than a terrier can define a rat.
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I sought them far and found them, The sure, the straight, the brave, The hearts I lost my own to, The souls I could not save They braced their belts about them, They crossed in ships the sea, They sought and found six feet of ground, And there they died for me.
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