Up, lad: thews that lie and cumberSunlit pallets never thrive; Morns abed and daylight slumberWere not meant for man alive.
A.E. Housman
Life, to be sure, is nothing much to lose, But young men think it is, and we were young.
life men death youth lose young
You smile upon your friend to-day, To-day his ills are over; You hearken to the lover's say, And happy is the lover.'Tis late to hearken, late to smile, But better late than never: I shall have lived a little whileBefore I die for ever.
life death happy smile friend die lover
Stone, steel, dominions pass, Faith too, no wonder; So leave alone the grassThat I am under.
steel faith grass
The stars have not dealt me the worst they could do: My pleasures are plenty, my troubles are two. But oh, my two troubles they reave me of rest, The brains in my head and the heart in my breast. Oh, grant me the ease that is granted so free, The birthright of multitudes, give it to me, That relish their victuals and rest on their bedWith flint in the bosom and guts in the head.
fate
Even when poetry has a meaning, as it usually has, it may be inadvisable to draw it out. Perfect understanding will sometimes almost extinguish pleasure.
poetry-quotes
Therefore, since the world has stillMuch good, but much less good than ill, And while the sun and moon endureLuck's a chance, but trouble's sure,I'd face it as a wise man would, And train for ill and not for good.
poetry poets
Along the field as we came byA year ago, my love and I, The aspen over stile and stoneWas talking to itself alone.'Oh who are these that kiss and pass?A country lover and his lass; Two lovers looking to be wed; And time shall put them both to bed, But she shall lie with earth above, And he beside another love.'And sure enough beneath the treeThere walks another love with me, And overhead the aspen heavesIts rainy-sounding silver leaves; And I spell nothing in their stir, But now perhaps they speak to her, And plain for her to understandThey talk about a time at handWhen I shall sleep with clover clad, And she beside another lad.
poetry
When the lad for longing sighs, Mute and dull of cheer and pale, If at death's own door he lies, Maiden, you can heal his ail. Lovers' ills are all to buy: The wan look, the hollow tone, The hung head, the sunken eye, You can have them for your own. Buy them, buy them: eve and mornLovers' ills are all to sell. Then you can lie down forlorn; But the lover will be well.
When I examine my mind and try to discern clearly in the matter, I cannot satisfy myself that there are any such things as poetical ideas. No truth, it seems to me, is too precious, no observation too profound, and no sentiment too exalted to be expressed in prose. The utmost I could admit is that some ideas do, while others do not, lend themselves kindly to poetical expression; and that those receive from poetry an enhancement which glorifies and almost transfigures them, and which is not perceived to be a separate thing except by analysis.
If it chance your eye offends you, Pluck it out lad, and be sound: 'Twill hurt, but here are salves to friend you, And many a balsam grows on ground. And if your hand or foot offend you, Cut it off, lad, and be whole; But play the man, stand up and end you, When your sickness is your soul.
It nods and curtseys and recoversWhen the wind blows above, The nettle on the graves of loversThat hanged themselves for love. The nettle nods, the wind blows over, The man, he does not move, The lover of the grave, the loverThat hanged himself for love.
The thoughts of othersWere light and fleeting, Of lovers' meetingOr luck or fame. Mine were of trouble, And mine were steady; So I was readyWhen trouble came.
trouble fame luck thoughts individual lovers
Epitaph on an Army of Mercenaries These, in the day when heaven was falling, The hour when earth's foundations fled, Followed their mercenary callingAnd took their wages and are dead. Their shoulders held the sky suspended; They stood, and earth's foundations stay; What God abandoned, these defended, And saved the sum of things for pay.
war soldiers
When I was one-and-twenty I heard a wise man say, The heart out of the bosom Was never given in vain; 'Tis paid with sighs a plenty And sold for endless rue.'And I am two-and-twenty And oh, 'tis true, 'tis true.
life wisdom youth maturity
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