A. E. Housman
A. E. Housman
Alfred Edward Housman, usually known as A. E. Housman, was an English classical scholar and poet, best known to the general public for his cycle of poems A Shropshire Lad. Lyrical and almost epigrammatic in form, the poems wistfully evoke the dooms and disappointments of youth in the English countryside. Their beauty, simplicity and distinctive imagery appealed strongly to late Victorian and Edwardian taste, and to many early 20th-century English composers both before and after the First World War. Through...
NationalityEnglish
ProfessionPoet
Date of Birth26 March 1859
Ensanguining the skies, How heavily it dies, Into the west away; Past touch and sight and sound, Not further to be found, How hopeless under ground, Falls the remorseful day
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.
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.
Cambridge has seen many strange sights. It has seen Wordsworth drunk, it has seen Porson sober. I am a greater scholar than Wordsworth and I am a greater poet than Porson. So I fall betwixt and between.
A neck God made for other use / Than strangling in a string.
Little is the luck I've had, And oh, 'tis comfort small - To think that many another lad - Has had no luck at all
Here of a Sunday morning / My love and I would lie, / And see the coloured counties, / And hear the larks so high / About us in the sky.
From far, from eve and morning And yon twelve-winded sky, The stuff of life to knit me Blew hither: here am I
No change, though you lie under / The land you used to plough.
May will be fine next year as like as not: / Oh ay, but then we shall be twenty-four.
His folly has not fellow Beneath the blue of day That gives to man or woman His heart and soul away.
I could no more define poetry than a terrier can define a rat.
Tomorrow, more's the pity, / Away we both must hie, To air the ditty / and to earth I.
If a line of poetry strays into my memory, my skin bristles so that the razor ceases to act.