And how am I to face the odds, Of man's bedevilment and God's? I, a stranger and afraid, In a world I never made
Alfred Edward Housman
Little is the luck I've had, And oh, 'tis comfort small - To think that many another lad - Has had no luck at all
luck comfort small
Nature not content with denying him the ability to think, has endowed him with the ability to write
ability content nature write
I, a stranger and afraid In a world I never made
world afraid made stranger
world face afraid made stranger
I could no more define poetry than a terrier can define a rat
poetry
Ensanguining the skies, How heavily it dies, Into the west away; Past touch and sight and sound, Not further to be found, How hopeless under ground, Falls the remorseful day
sound past day hopeless found touch sight west
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. Then the world seemed none so bad, and I myself a sterling lad. And down in lovely muck I've lain, happy -- till I woke up again.
home world fair happy bad lovely left beer god
That is the land of lost content, I see it shining plain, the happy highways where I went and cannot come again
content happy lost land
And malt does more than Milton can To justify the ways of God to man
man god
This is for all ill-treated fellows - Unborn and unbegot, For them to read when they're in trouble And I am not
trouble read
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