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Now, of my threescore years and ten, Twenty will not come again.

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
Woodland
Twenty
Twenties
Ten
Come
Years

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Hope lies to mortals And most believe her, But man's deceiver Was never mine.
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When the journey's over/There'll be time enough to sleep.
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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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Ale, man, ale's the stuff to drink for fellows whom it hurts to think.
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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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Ten thousand times I've done my best and all's to do again.
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On Wenlock Edge the wood's in troubleHis forest fleece the Wrekin heavesThe wind it plies the saplings double, And thick on Severn snow the leaves.
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Therefore, since the world has still Much good, but much less good than ill
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Could man be drunk for ever With liquor, love, or fights, Lief should I rouse at morning And lief lie down of nights. 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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You smile upon your friend to-day, To-day his ills are over You hearken to the lover's say, And happy is the lover. 'Tis late to hearken, late to smile, But better late than never: I shall have lived a little while Before I die for ever.
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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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That is the land of lost content, I see it shining plain, the happy highways where I went and cannot come again.
A. E. Housman
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Into my hear an air that kills through yon far country blows what are those blue remembered hills what spires,what farms are those? that is the land of lost content I can see it shining plain the happy highways where I went and cannot come again.
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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 mortal sickness of a mind too unhappy to be kind.
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The fairies break their dances And leave the printed lawn.
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I could no more define poetry than a terrier can define a rat.
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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.
A. E. Housman
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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.
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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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