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Tomorrow, more's the pity, Away we both must hie, To air the ditty and to earth I.

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
Ditty
Pity
Air
Tomorrow
Away
Earth
Must

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All knots that lovers tie Are tied to sever. Here shall your sweetheart lie, Untrue for ever.
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Loveliest of trees, the cherry now Is hung with bloom along the bough.
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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.
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White in the moon the long road lies.
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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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Lovers lying two and two Ask not whom they sleep beside, And the bridegroom all night through Never turns him to the bride.
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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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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 could no more define poetry than a terrier can define a rat.
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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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Who made the world I cannot tell 'Tis made, and here am I in hell. My hand, though now my knuckles bleed, I never soiled with such a deed.
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If a man will comprehend the richness and variety of the universe, and inspire his mind with a due measure of wonder and awe, he must contemplate the human intellect not only on its heights of genius but in its abysses of ineptitude.
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Mithridates, he died old. Housman's passage is based on the belief of the ancients that Mithridates the Great [c. 135-63 B.C.] had so saturated his body with poisons that none could injure him. When captured by the Romans he tried in vain to poison himself, then ordered a Gallic mercenary to kill him.
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Good religious poetry... is likely to be most justly appreciated and most discriminately relished by the undevout.
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I do not choose the right word, I get rid of the wrong one.
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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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The house of delusions is cheap to build but drafty to live in.
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Stone, steel, dominions pass, Faith too, no wonder So leave alone the grass That I am under.
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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 find Cambridge an asylum, in every sense of the word.
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