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 were mostly written before 1900. Their wistful evocation of doomed youth in the English countryside, in spare language and distinctive imagery, appealed strongly to late Victorian and Edwardian taste, and to many early 20th century English composers (beginning with Arthur Somervell) both before and after the First World War. Through its song-setting the poetry became closely associated with that era, and with Shropshire itself.
Housman was counted one of the foremost classicists of ... more »
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Alfred Edward Housman Poems
Here Dead We Lie
Here dead we lie Because we did not choose To live and shame the land From which we sprung.
To an Athlete Dying Young
The time you won your town the race We chaired you through the market-place; Man and boy stood cheering by, And home we brought you shoulder-high.
Be Still, My Soul, Be Still
Be still, my soul, be still; the arms you bear are brittle, Earth and high heaven are fixt of old and founded strong. Think rather,-- call to thought, if now you grieve a little, The days when we had rest, O soul, for they were long.
Along The Field as We Came By
ALONG the field as we came by A year ago, my love and I, The aspen over stile and stone Was talking to itself alone.
The Carpenter's Son
"Here the hangman stops his cart: Now the best of friends must part. Fare you well, for ill fare I: Live, lads, and I will die.
When I Was One-and-Twenty
When I was one-and-twenty I heard a wise man say, "Give crowns and pounds and guineas But not your heart away;
Loveliest of Trees, the Cherry Now
Loveliest of trees, the cherry now Is hung with bloom along the bough, And stands about the woodland ride Wearing white for Eastertide.
Farewell to Barn and Stack and Tree
"Farewell to barn and stack and tree, Farewell to Severn shore. Terence, look your last at me, For I come home no more.
Terence, This is Stupid Stuff
"Terence, this is stupid stuff! You eat your victuals fast enough; There can't be much amiss, 'tis clear, To see the rate you drink your beer.
Is My Team Ploughing
"Is my team ploughing, That I was used to drive And hear the harness jingle When I was man alive?"
Could Man Be Drunk Forever
Could man be drunk for ever With liquor, love, or fights, Lief should I rouse at morning And lief lie down of nights.
From Far, From Eve and Morning
From far, from eve and morning And yon twelve-winded sky, The stuff of life to knit me Blew hither: here am I.
He stood, and heard the steeple Sprinkle the quarters on the morning town. One, two, three, four, to market-place and people It tossed them down.
Into My Heart an Air that Kills
Into my heart an air that kills From yon far country blows: What are those blue remembered hills, What spires, what farms are those?
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
Here Dead We Lie
Here dead we lie
Because we did not choose
To live and shame the land
From which we sprung.
Life, to be sure,
Is nothing much to lose,
But young men think it is,
And we were young.