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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.

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
Men
Roman
Life
Woods
Like
Quiet
Wind
Tree
Twas
High
Gale
Change
Blew
Never
Riot

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They carry back bright to the coiner the mintage of man,The lads that will die in their glory and never be old.
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Therefore, since the world has still Much good, but much less good than ill
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The mortal sickness of a mind too unhappy to be kind.
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Ten thousand times I've done my best and all's to do again.
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But if you ever come to a road where danger Or guilt or anguish or shame's to share. Be good to the lad who loves you true, And the soul that was born to die for you And whistle and I'll be there.
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To justify God's ways to man.
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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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Hope lies to mortals And most believe her, But man's deceiver Was never mine.
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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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I find Cambridge an asylum, in every sense of the word.
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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
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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 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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I do not choose the right word, I get rid of the wrong one.
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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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Earth and high heaven are fixed of old and founded strong.
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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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Tell me not here, it needs not saying, What tune the enchantress plays In aftermaths of soft September Or under blanching mays, For she and I were long acquainted And I knew all her ways.
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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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Luck's a chance, but trouble's sure.
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