Iniquity it is; but pass the can. 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. (Last Poems, IX)

— A.E. Housman

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. And bound for the same born as I, On every road I wandered by, Trod beside me, close and dear, The beautiful and death-struck year:Whether in the woodland brown heard the beechnut rustle down, And saw the purple crocus pale Flower about the autumn dale;Or littering far the fields of Malady-smocks a-bleaching lay, And like a sky lit water stood The bluebells in the azure wood. Yonder, lightening other loads, The season range the country roads, But here in London streets I Kenny such helpmates, only men;And these are not in plight to bear, If they would, another's care. They have enough as 'tis: I seen many an eye that measures Bethe mortal sickness of a mind Too unhappy to be kind. Undone with misery, all they canis to hate their fellow man;And till they drop they need must still Look at you and wish you ill.

— A.E. Housman

Into my heart an air that kills From yon far country blows:What are those blue-remembered hills, What spires, what farms are those? That is the land of lost content, I see it shining plain, The happy highways where I went And cannot come

— A.E. Housman

Into my heart an air that kills From yon far country blows:What are those blue-remembered hills, What spires, what farms are those? 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

I seen many an eye that measures Bethe mortal sickness of a mind Too unhappy to be kind. Undone with misery, all they canis to hate their fell

— A.E. Housman

It nods and curses and recovers When the wind blows above, The nettle on the graves of lovers That hanged themselves for love. The nettle nods, the wind blows over, The man, he does not move, The lover of the grave, the lover That hanged himself for love.

— A.E. Housman

IVREVEILLEWake: the silver dusk returning Up the beach of darkness brims, And the ship of sunrise burning Strands upon the eastern rims. Wake: the vaulted shadow shatters, Trampled to the floor it spanned, And the tent of night in tatters Straws the sky-pavilioned land. Up, lad, up, 'tis late for lying:Hear the drums of morning play;Hark, the empty highways crying"Who'll beyond the hills away?" Towns and countries woo together, Forelands beacon, belfries call;Never lad that trod on leather Lived to feast his heart with all. Up, lad: thews that lie and cumber Sunlit pallets never thrive;Morns abed and daylight slumber Were not meant for man alive. Clay lies still, but blood's a rover;Breath's a ware that will not keep Up, lad: when the journey's overhear'll be time enough to sleep.

— A.E. Housman

June suns, you cannot store them To warm the winter's cold, The lad that hopes for heaven Shall fill his mouth with mold.

— A.E. Housman

Lie you easy, dream you light, And sleep you fast for aye;And luckier may you find the night Than ever you found the day.

— A.E. Housman

Life, to be sure, is nothing much to lose, But young men think it is, and we were young.

— A.E. Housman