Quotes from A. E. Housman

Poetry is not the thing said, but the way of saying it.

I think that to transfuse emotion - not to transmit thought but to set up in the reader's sense a vibration corresponding to what was felt by the writer - is the peculiar function of poetry.

And malt does more than Milton can to justify God's ways to man.

The bells they sound on Bredon, And still the steeples hum. "Come all to church, good people"- Oh, noisy bells, be dumb; I hear you, I will come.

Oh I have been to Ludlow fair, and left my necktie God knows where. And carried half way home, or near, pints and quarts of Ludlow beer.

Hope lies to mortals And most believe her, But man's deceiver Was never mine.

Three minutes thought would suffice to find this out; but thought is irksome and three minutes is a long time.

That is the land of lost content, I see it shining plain, the happy highways where I went and cannot come again.

All knowledge is precious whether or not it serves the slightest human use.

Ale, man, ale's the stuff to drink for fellows whom it hurts to think.

He would not stay for me, and who can wonder? He would not stay for me to stand and gaze. I shook his hand, and tore my heart in sunder, And went with half my life about my ways.

Great literature should do some good to the reader: must quicken his perception though dull, and sharpen his discrimination though blunt, and mellow the rawness of his personal opinions.

A moment's thought would have shown him. But a moment is a long time, and thought is a painful process.

When the journey's over/There'll be time enough to sleep.

Who made the world I cannot tell; 'Tis made, and here am I in hell. My hand, though now my knuckles bleed, I never soiled with such a deed.

The house of delusions is cheap to build but drafty to live in.

Give me a land of boughs in leaf A land of trees that stand; Where trees are fallen there is grief; I love no leafless land.

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 to sleep.

In every American there is an air of incorrigible innocence, which seems to conceal a diabolical cunning.

If a line of poetry strays into my memory, my skin bristles so that the razor ceases to act.

But if you ever come to a road where danger; Or guilt or anguish or shame's to share. Be good to the lad who loves you true, And the soul that was born to die for you; And whistle and I'll be there.

Look not in my eyes, for fear They mirror true the sight I see, And there you find your face too clear And love it and be lost like me.

Shoulder the sky, my lad, and drink your ale.

The troubles of our proud and angry dust are from eternity, and shall not fail. Bear them we can, and if we can we must. Shoulder the sky, my lad, and drink your ale.