Within United Kingdom About this Item: Penguin Harmondsworth, Harmondsworth, 1956. Over the hill the highway marches And what's beyond is wide: Oh soon enough will pine to nought Remembrance and the faithful thought That sits the grave beside. Some of the asperity and directness that appears in Housman's lyrics also is found in his scholarship, in which he defended common sense with a sarcastic wit that helped to make him widely feared. Marching, fighting, victory past, Stretch your limbs in peace at last. But oh, my man, the house is fallen That none can build again; My man, how full of joy and woe Your mother bore you years ago To-night to lie in the rain. It is in truth iniquity on high To cheat our sentenced souls of aught they crave, And mar the merriment as you and I Fare on our long fool's-errand to the grave.
For those who want to explore poetry and know little or nothing of Housman's work, my only advice is: get this book. But no, they will not; they must still Wrest their neighbour to their will, And make me dance as they desire With jail and gallows and hell-fire. Far in a western brookland That bred me long ago The poplars stand and tremble By pools I used to know. As well as charting his compositional practices, the edition illuminates the many sources, from Biblical and Classical to contemporary, which influenced Housman - consciously or unconsciously - in his choice of ideas, images, and phraseology. Oh priestess, what you cry is clear, and sound good sense I think it; But let the screaming echoes rest, and froth your mouth no more. The stars have not dealt me the worst they could do: My pleasures are plenty, my troubles are two. The introduction and commentary also cover dating and other textual matters, information on persons, places, and historical context, and Housman's linguistic usage.
The land of the living is where he would like to remain, but unfortunately he is filled with the knowledge that he is going to die soon, and will be in the land of the dead forever. Worth it for the magnificent final stanza alone. A careless shepherd once would keep The flocks by moonlight there, And high amongst the glimmering sheep The dead man stood on air. Say, for what were hop-yards meant, Or why was Burton built on Trent? Oh hard is the bed they have made him, And common the blanket and cheap; But there he will lie as they laid him: Where else could you trust him to sleep? The gale, it plies the saplings double, It blows so hard, 'twill soon be gone: To-day the Roman and his trouble Are ashes under Uricon. Up, lad: thews that lie and cumber Sunlit pallets never thrive; Morns abed and daylight slumber Were not meant for man alive.
There are some questions I won't answer: don't waste your time asking them. Now, of my three score years and ten, Twenty will not come again, And take from seventy springs a score, It only leaves me fifty more. They will be master, right or wrong; Though both are foolish, both are strong. Now dreary dawns the eastern light, And fall of eve is drear, And cold the poor man lies at night, And so goes out the year. Souls undone, undoing others,-- Long time since the tale began. That is the land of lost content, I see it shining plain, The happy highways where I went And cannot come again.
From Canada to United Kingdom About this Item: Jonathan Cape, London. For more than seventy years, Penguin has been the leading publisher of classic literature in the English-speaking world. At the end of his second year, Housman gained a First in Moderations and was expected to perform brilliantly in his final examination, Greats. O thou that from thy mansion Through time and place to roam, Dost send abroad thy children, And then dost call them home, That men and tribes and nations And all thy hand hath made May shelter them from sunshine In thine eternal shade: We now to peace and darkness And earth and thee restore Thy creature that thou madest And wilt cast forth no more. In my own shire, if I was sad, Homely comforters I had: The earth, because my heart was sore, Sorrowed for the son she bore; And standing hills, long to remain, Shared their short-lived comrade's pain.
This volume brings together the works Housman published in his lifetime, A Shropshire Lad 1896 and Last Poems 1922 , along with many posthumous selections and three translations of extracts from Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Euripedes that display his mastery of classical literature. The half-moon westers low, my love, And the wind brings up the rain; And wide apart lie we, my love, And seas between the twain. Housman Number Of Pages 256 pages Format Paperback Publication Date 2010-09-28 Language English Publisher Penguin Publishing Group Publication Year 2010 Additional Details Copyright Date 2008 Dimensions Weight 7. The cow, the old cow, she is dead; It sleeps well, the horned head: We poor lads, 'tis our turn now To hear such tunes as killed the cow. He gathered all that sprang to birth From the many-venomed earth; First a little, thence to more, He sampled all her killing store; And easy, smiling, seasoned sound, Sate the king when healths went round. More than I, if truth were told, Have stood and sweated hot and cold, And through their reins in ice and fire Fear contended with desire. The final line of this underrated poem — about the fading of hope as we grow older — provided Colin Dexter with the title of his final Inspector Morse novel, The Remorseful Day 1999.
As I gird on for fighting My sword upon my thigh, I think on old ill fortunes Of better men than I. On Wenlock Edge the wood's in trouble; His forest fleece the Wrekin heaves; The gale, it plies the saplings double, And thick on Severn snow the leaves. Home is the sailor, home from sea: Her far-borne canvas furled The ship pours shining on the quay The plunder of the world. And sharp the link of life will snap, And dead on air will stand Heels that held up as straight a chap As treads upon the land. Good-night, my lad, for nought's eternal; No league of ours, for sure. My lad, no pair of kings our mothers bore; Our only portion is the estate of man: We want the moon, but we shall get no more.
Now, when the flame they watch not towers About the soil they trod, Lads, we'll remember friends of ours Who shared the work with God. What evil luck soever For me remains in store, 'Tis sure much finer fellows Have fared much worse before. His poems conjure up a potent and idyllic rural world imbued with a poignant sense of loss and sadness. Oh, 'tis jesting, dancing, drinking Spins the heavy world around. Housman: A Collection of Critical Essays, Prentice-Hall, 1968. Among the newly published complete poems are some that Dr.