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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.

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
Colour
Wherefore
Wearing
Stricken
Prison
Wrist
Conscience
Wrists
Air
Fists
Taking
Shake
Hair
Shakes
Handcuffs
Young
Sinner
Groan

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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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He would not stay for me, and who can wonder? He would not stay for me to stand and gaze. I shook his hand, and tore my heart in sunder, And went with half my life about my ways.
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Strapped, noosed, nighing his hour, He stood and counted them and cursed his luck And then the clock collected in the tower Its strength, and struck.
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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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The house of delusions is cheap to build but drafty to live in.
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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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Tomorrow, more's the pity, Away we both must hie, To air the ditty and to earth I.
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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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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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Earth and high heaven are fixed of old and founded strong.
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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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All knowledge is precious whether or not it serves the slightest human use.
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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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Nature, not content with denying him the ability to think, has endowed him with the ability to write.
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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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Even when poetry has a meaning, as it usually has, it may be inadvisable to draw it out. Perfect understanding will sometimes almost extinguish pleasure.
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Wanderers eastward, wanderers west, Know you why you cannot rest? 'Tis that every mother's son Travails with a skeleton. Lie down in the bed of dust Bear the fruit that bear you must Bring the eternal seed to light, And morn is all the same as night.
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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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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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