Alfred Edward Housman

(26 March 1859 – 30 April 1936 / Worcestershire)

Alfred Edward Housman Poems

41. The Stinging Nettle 1/3/2003
42. Say, Lad, Have You Things To Do? 1/3/2003
43. The Fairies Break Their Dances 1/3/2003
44. The Winds Out Of The West Land Blow 1/3/2003
45. When The Lad For Longing Sighs 1/3/2003
46. O Why Do You Walk (A Parody) 1/3/2003
47. Oh Fair Enough Are Sky And Plain 1/3/2003
48. The Merry Guide 1/3/2003
49. Loitering With A Vacant Eye 1/3/2003
50. On Your Midnight Pallet Lying 1/3/2003
51. The Welsh Marches 1/3/2003
52. The Immortal Part 1/3/2003
53. Wake Not For The World-Heard Thunder 1/3/2003
54. When Smoke Stood Up From Ludlow 1/3/2003
55. The Street Sounds To The Soldiers' Tread 1/3/2003
56. When I Watch The Living Meet 1/3/2003
57. Shot? So Quick, So Clean An Ending? 1/3/2003
58. The New Mistress 1/3/2003
59. There Pass The Careless People 1/3/2003
60. The Lads In Their Hundreds 1/3/2003
61. Reveille 1/3/2003
62. March 1/3/2003
63. The Recruit 1/3/2003
64. The Rainy Pleiads Wester 1/3/2003
65. Oh Stay At Home, My Lad 1/3/2003
66. Think No More, Lad 1/3/2003
67. The Grizzly Bear 1/3/2003
68. Twice A Week The Winter Thorough 1/3/2003
69. Oh Who Is That Young Sinner 1/3/2003
70. On Moonlit Heath And Lonesome Bank 1/3/2003
71. It Nods And Curtseys And Recovers 1/3/2003
72. The Lent Lily 1/3/2003
73. White In The Moon The Long Road Lies 1/3/2003
74. Look Not In My Eyes, For Fear 1/3/2003
75. In Valleys Of Springs And Rivers 1/3/2003
76. The True Lover 1/3/2003
77. As Through The Wild Green Hills Of Wyre 1/3/2003
78. The Chestnut Casts His Flambeaux 1/3/2003
79. On The Idle Hill Of Summer 1/3/2003
80. Bring, In This Timeless Grave To Throw 1/3/2003
Best Poem of Alfred Edward Housman

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.

To-day, the road all runners come,
Shoulder-high we bring you home,
And set you at your threshold down,
Townsman of a stiller town.

Smart lad, to slip betimes away
From fields where glory does not stay
And early though the laurel grows
It withers quicker than the rose.

Eyes the shady night has shut
Cannot see the record cut,
And silence sounds no worse than cheers
After earth has ...

Read the full of To An Athlete Dying Young

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.

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