There pass the careless people That call their souls their own:Here by the road I loiter, How idle and alone. Ah, past the plunge of plummet, In seas I cannot sound, My heart and soul and senses, World without end, are drowned. His folly has not fellow Beneath the blue of day That gives to man or woman His heart and soul away. There flowers no balm to main him From east of earth to west That's lost for everlasting The heart out of his breast. Here by the laboring highway With empty hands I stroll:Sea-deep, till doomsday morning, Lie lost my heart and soul.

— A.E. Housman

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 leave 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 bed With flint in the bosom and guts in the head.

— A.E. Housman

The sum of things to be known is inexhaustible, and however long we read, we shall never come to the end of our story-

— A.E. Housman

The sum of things to be known is inexhaustible, and however long we read, we shall never come to the end of our story-book.", 3 October 1892)

— A.E. Housman

The thoughts of others Were light and fleeting, Of lovers' meeting Or luck or fame. Mine were of trouble, And mine were steady;So I was ready When trouble came.

— A.E. Housman

They say my verse is sad: no wonder. Its narrow measure spans Rue for eternity, and sorrow Not mine, but man'this is for all ill-treated fellows Unborn and begot, For them to read when they're in trouble And I am not.

— A.E. Housman

This the old wind in the old anger, But then it threshed another wood.

— A.E. Housman

To-day I shall be strong, No more shall yield to wrong, Shall squander life no more;Days lost, I know not how, I shall retrieve them now;Now I shall keep the vows never kept before.

— A.E. Housman

To stand up straight and tread the turning mill, To lie flat and know nothing and be still, Are the two trades of man; and which is worse know not, but I know that both are ill.

— A.E. Housman

Wanderers eastward, wanderers west, Know you why you cannot rest?'This that every mother's son Travails with a skeleton. Lie down in the bed of dust;Bear the fruit that bear you must;Bring the eternal seed to light, And morn is all the same as night.

— A.E. Housman