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There, by the starlit fences The wanderer halts and hears My soul that lingers sighing About the glimmering weirs.
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
Lingers
Wanderers
Fences
Hears
Starlit
Halt
Halts
Fence
Glimmering
Soul
Wanderer
Sighing
More quotes by A. E. Housman
Hope lies to mortals And most believe her, But man's deceiver Was never mine.
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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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Tomorrow, more's the pity, Away we both must hie, To air the ditty and to earth I.
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The mortal sickness of a mind too unhappy to be kind.
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I do not choose the right word, I get rid of the wrong one.
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The fairies break their dances And leave the printed lawn.
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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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His folly has not fellow Beneath the blue of day That gives to man or woman His heart and soul away.
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And malt does more than Milton can to justify God's ways to 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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And silence sounds no worse than cheers After earth has stopped the ears.
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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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They put arsenic in his meat And stared aghast to watch him eat They poured strychnine in his cup And shook to see him drink it up.
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Ten thousand times I've done my best and all's to do again.
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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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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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That is the land of lost content, I see it shining plain, the happy highways where I went and cannot come again.
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I find Cambridge an asylum, in every sense of the word.
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Loveliest of trees, the cherry now Is hung with bloom along the bough.
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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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