Here dead lie we because we did not choose to live and shame the land from which we sprung. Life, to be… — A. E. Housman Copy Share Image
Into my hear an air that kills through yon far country blows what are those blue remembered hills what spires,what farms are… — A. E. Housman Copy Share Image
Good night; ensured release, Imperishable peace, Have these for yours. * While sky and sea and land And earth's foundations stand And… — A. E. Housman Copy Share Image
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 Copy Share Image
I think that to transfuse emotion - not to transmit thought but to set up in the reader's sense a vibration corresponding to what… — A. E. Housman Copy Share Image
Clay lies still, but blood's a rover; Breath's aware that will not keep. Up, lad: when the journey's over then there'll be time enough… — A. E. Housman Copy Share Image
Housman is one of my heroes and always has been. He was a detestable and miserable man. Arrogant, unspeakably lonely, cruel, and so on,… — A. E. Housman Copy Share Image
On occasions, after drinking a pint of beer at luncheon, there would be a flow into my mind with sudden and unaccountable emotion, sometimes… — A. E. Housman Copy Share Image
Here dead lie we because we did not choose to live and shame the land from which we sprung. Life, to be sure, is… — A. E. Housman Copy Share Image
A moment's thought would have shown him. But a moment is a long time, and thought is a painful process. — A. E. Housman Copy Share Image
His folly has not fellow Beneath the blue of day That gives to man or woman His heart and soul away. — A. E. Housman Copy Share Image
On Wenlock Edge the wood's in trouble;His forest fleece the Wrekin heaves;The wind it plies the saplings double, And thick on Severn snow the… — A. E. Housman Copy Share Image
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… — A. E. Housman Copy Share Image
'Tis spring; come out to ramble The hilly brakes around, For under thorn and bramble About the hollow ground The primroses are found. And… — A. E. Housman Copy Share Image
