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Last Poems
English poet and scholar, whose verse would influence later poets, although only two slim volumes appeared during his lifetime, this being one of them. Partial Contents: Beyond the moor and mountain crest; Her strong enchantments failing; In valleys green and still; Could man be drunk for ever; The night my father got me; The sigh that heaves the grasses; Onward led the road again; and When lads were home from labour.
80 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1922
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About the author
A.E. Housman
192 books144 followers
A Shropshire Lad
(1896) and
Last Poems
(1922) apparently published works of British poet and scholar Alfred Edward Housman, brother of Laurence Housman and Clemence Housman.
To his fellow noted classicists, his critical editing of Manilius earned him enduring fame.
The eldest of seven children and a gifted student, Housman won a scholarship to Oxford, where he performed well but for various reasons neglected philosophy and ancient history subjects that failed to pique his interest and consequently failed to gain a degree. Frustrated, he gained at job as a patent clerk but continued his research in the classical studies and published a variety of well-regarded papers. After a decade with such his reputation, he ably obtain a position at University College London in 1902. In 1911, he took the Kennedy professorship of Latin at Trinity College, Cambridge, where he remained for the rest of his life.
As a scholar, Housman concentrated on Latin. He published a five-volume critical edition, the definitive text, of his work on " Astronomica " of Manilus from 1903 to 1930. Housman the poet produced lyrics that express a Romantic pessimism in a spare, simple style. In some of the asperity and directness in lyrics and also scholarship, Housman defended common sense with a sarcastic wit that helped to make him widely feared.
There are several biographies of Housman, and a The Housman Society http://www.housman-society.co.uk/
To his fellow noted classicists, his critical editing of Manilius earned him enduring fame.
The eldest of seven children and a gifted student, Housman won a scholarship to Oxford, where he performed well but for various reasons neglected philosophy and ancient history subjects that failed to pique his interest and consequently failed to gain a degree. Frustrated, he gained at job as a patent clerk but continued his research in the classical studies and published a variety of well-regarded papers. After a decade with such his reputation, he ably obtain a position at University College London in 1902. In 1911, he took the Kennedy professorship of Latin at Trinity College, Cambridge, where he remained for the rest of his life.
As a scholar, Housman concentrated on Latin. He published a five-volume critical edition, the definitive text, of his work on " Astronomica " of Manilus from 1903 to 1930. Housman the poet produced lyrics that express a Romantic pessimism in a spare, simple style. In some of the asperity and directness in lyrics and also scholarship, Housman defended common sense with a sarcastic wit that helped to make him widely feared.
There are several biographies of Housman, and a The Housman Society http://www.housman-society.co.uk/
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Displaying 1 - 17 of 17 reviews
March 20, 2018
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?
To sleep when the bugle is crying
And cravens have heard and are brave,
When mothers and sweethearts are sighing
And lads are in love with the grave.
Oh dark is the chamber and lonely,
And lights and companions depart;
But lief will he lose them and only
Behold the desire of his heart.
And low is the roof, but it covers
A sleeper content to repose;
And far from his friends and his lovers
He lies with the sweetheart he chose.
And common the blanket and cheap;
But there he will lie as they laid him:
Where else could you trust him to sleep?
To sleep when the bugle is crying
And cravens have heard and are brave,
When mothers and sweethearts are sighing
And lads are in love with the grave.
Oh dark is the chamber and lonely,
And lights and companions depart;
But lief will he lose them and only
Behold the desire of his heart.
And low is the roof, but it covers
A sleeper content to repose;
And far from his friends and his lovers
He lies with the sweetheart he chose.
December 17, 2022
Favorite passage:
"Tell me not here, it needs not saying,
What tune the enchantress plays
In aftermaths of soft September
Or under blanching mays,
For she and I were long acquainted
And I knew all her ways.
On russet floors, by waters idle,
The pine lets fall its cone;
The cuckoo shouts all day at nothing
In leafy dells alone;
And traveller’s joy beguiles in autumn
Hearts that have lost their own.
On acres of the seeded grasses
The changing burnish heaves;
Or marshalled under moons of harvest
Stand still all night the sheaves;
Or beeches strip in storms for winter
And stain the wind with leaves.
Possess, as I possessed a season,
The countries I resign,
Where over elmy plains the highway
Would mount the hills and shine,
And full of shade the pillared forest
Would murmur and be mine.
For nature, heartless, witless nature,
Will neither care nor know
What stranger’s feet may find the meadow
And trespass there and go,
Nor ask amid the dews of morning
If they are mine or no."
"Tell me not here, it needs not saying,
What tune the enchantress plays
In aftermaths of soft September
Or under blanching mays,
For she and I were long acquainted
And I knew all her ways.
On russet floors, by waters idle,
The pine lets fall its cone;
The cuckoo shouts all day at nothing
In leafy dells alone;
And traveller’s joy beguiles in autumn
Hearts that have lost their own.
On acres of the seeded grasses
The changing burnish heaves;
Or marshalled under moons of harvest
Stand still all night the sheaves;
Or beeches strip in storms for winter
And stain the wind with leaves.
Possess, as I possessed a season,
The countries I resign,
Where over elmy plains the highway
Would mount the hills and shine,
And full of shade the pillared forest
Would murmur and be mine.
For nature, heartless, witless nature,
Will neither care nor know
What stranger’s feet may find the meadow
And trespass there and go,
Nor ask amid the dews of morning
If they are mine or no."
May 27, 2022
Possibly one of the most beneficial rewards in reading a volume of verse is that the reader has a deeper understanding of the poet. It is as if the reader has reached out and touched the author's soul. And it helps us realize the spirit of the poet, as in all of us, evolves as time passes and sometimes not for the better.
Last Poems by A. E. Housman particularly exhibits a change as he aged. Sadly some of that transformation opens vistas of hopelessness and regret, which in some ways isn't much different from the bitterness and fascination with death which he had as a younger man. Many of the first poems in this volume involve the hopelessness of life because of war, the loss of friends, and the futility of love and its loss.
"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?
To sleep when the bugle is crying
And cravens have heard and are brave,
When mothers and sweethearts are sighing
And lads are in love with the grave. ...
And low is the roof, but it covers
A sleeper content to repose;
And far from his friends and his lovers
He lies with the sweetheart he chose."
As the volume progresses, however, Housman also changes and begins to look back, not on the futility of the death of his friends who died in the war, but the prospects of his own end and the regrets of a finished life.
"When summer's end is nighing
And skies at evening cloud,
I muse on change and fortune
And all the feats I vowed
When I was young and proud...
The year might age, and cloudy
The lessening day might close,
But air of other summers
Breathed from beyond the snows,
And I had hope of those,
They came and were and are not
And come no more anew,
And all the years and seasons
That ever can ensue
Must now be worse and few.
So here's an end of roaming
On eves when autumn nighs;
The ear too fondly listens
For summer's parting sighs,
And the heart replies."
Housman published Last Poems in 1922 feeling that his inspiration had ebbed and that this would be his final work, which, in fact, it was and the poetry in this volume depicts those feelings. The poems, therefore, are not of peace and joy, but of sadness and longing as is illustrated above.
In my opinion, this volume is one of contemplation and, in many cases, although it is not a particularly happy message, it not only helps us understand the tragedy of the poet, himself, but it helps each of us to understand a little about ourselves and whether, in many cases, our preconceived priorities will make us happier as time passes into eternity.
Last Poems by A. E. Housman particularly exhibits a change as he aged. Sadly some of that transformation opens vistas of hopelessness and regret, which in some ways isn't much different from the bitterness and fascination with death which he had as a younger man. Many of the first poems in this volume involve the hopelessness of life because of war, the loss of friends, and the futility of love and its loss.
"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?
To sleep when the bugle is crying
And cravens have heard and are brave,
When mothers and sweethearts are sighing
And lads are in love with the grave. ...
And low is the roof, but it covers
A sleeper content to repose;
And far from his friends and his lovers
He lies with the sweetheart he chose."
As the volume progresses, however, Housman also changes and begins to look back, not on the futility of the death of his friends who died in the war, but the prospects of his own end and the regrets of a finished life.
"When summer's end is nighing
And skies at evening cloud,
I muse on change and fortune
And all the feats I vowed
When I was young and proud...
The year might age, and cloudy
The lessening day might close,
But air of other summers
Breathed from beyond the snows,
And I had hope of those,
They came and were and are not
And come no more anew,
And all the years and seasons
That ever can ensue
Must now be worse and few.
So here's an end of roaming
On eves when autumn nighs;
The ear too fondly listens
For summer's parting sighs,
And the heart replies."
Housman published Last Poems in 1922 feeling that his inspiration had ebbed and that this would be his final work, which, in fact, it was and the poetry in this volume depicts those feelings. The poems, therefore, are not of peace and joy, but of sadness and longing as is illustrated above.
In my opinion, this volume is one of contemplation and, in many cases, although it is not a particularly happy message, it not only helps us understand the tragedy of the poet, himself, but it helps each of us to understand a little about ourselves and whether, in many cases, our preconceived priorities will make us happier as time passes into eternity.
March 15, 2023
Yonder See the Morning
Yonder see the morning blink:
The sun is up, and up must I,
To wash and dress and eat and drink
And look at things and talk and think
And work, and God knows why.
Oh often have I washed and dressed
And what's to show for all my pain?
Let me lie abed and rest:
Ten thousand times I've done my best
And all's to do again.
The Laws of God, The Laws of Man
The laws of God, the laws of man,
He may keep that will and can;
Not I: let God and man decree
Laws for themselves and not for me;
And if my ways are not as theirs
Let them mind their own affairs.
Their deeds I judge and much condemn,
Yet when did I make laws for them?
Please yourselves, say I, and they
Need only look the other way.
But no, they will not; they must still
Wrest their neighbor to their will,
And make me dance as they desire
With jail and gallows and hell-fire.
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.
They will be master, right or wrong;
Though both are foolish, both are strong.
And since, my soul, we cannot fly
To Saturn nor to Mercury,
Keep we must, if keep we can,
These foreign laws of God and man.
The Culprit
The night my father got me
His mind was not on me;
He did not plague his fancy
To muse if I should be
The son you see.
The day my mother bore me
She was a fool and glad,
For all the pain I cost her,
That she had borne the lad
That borne she had.
My mother and my father
Out of the light they lie;
The warrant would not find them,
And here 'tis only I
Shall hang so high.
Oh let not man remember
The soul that God forgot,
But fetch the county kerchief
And noose me in the knot,
And I will rot.
For so the game is ended
That should not have begun.
My father and my mother
They had a likely son,
And I have none.
Yonder see the morning blink:
The sun is up, and up must I,
To wash and dress and eat and drink
And look at things and talk and think
And work, and God knows why.
Oh often have I washed and dressed
And what's to show for all my pain?
Let me lie abed and rest:
Ten thousand times I've done my best
And all's to do again.
The Laws of God, The Laws of Man
The laws of God, the laws of man,
He may keep that will and can;
Not I: let God and man decree
Laws for themselves and not for me;
And if my ways are not as theirs
Let them mind their own affairs.
Their deeds I judge and much condemn,
Yet when did I make laws for them?
Please yourselves, say I, and they
Need only look the other way.
But no, they will not; they must still
Wrest their neighbor to their will,
And make me dance as they desire
With jail and gallows and hell-fire.
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.
They will be master, right or wrong;
Though both are foolish, both are strong.
And since, my soul, we cannot fly
To Saturn nor to Mercury,
Keep we must, if keep we can,
These foreign laws of God and man.
The Culprit
The night my father got me
His mind was not on me;
He did not plague his fancy
To muse if I should be
The son you see.
The day my mother bore me
She was a fool and glad,
For all the pain I cost her,
That she had borne the lad
That borne she had.
My mother and my father
Out of the light they lie;
The warrant would not find them,
And here 'tis only I
Shall hang so high.
Oh let not man remember
The soul that God forgot,
But fetch the county kerchief
And noose me in the knot,
And I will rot.
For so the game is ended
That should not have begun.
My father and my mother
They had a likely son,
And I have none.
Read
September 5, 2010When I was four-and-twenty
I heard a wise man say,
'Give crowns and pounds and guineas
But not your heart away;
Give pearls away and rubies
But keep your fancy free.'
But I was four-and-twenty,
No use to talk to me.
When I was four-and-twenty
I heard him say again,
'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 three-and-fifty,
And oh, 'tis true, 'tis true.
I heard a wise man say,
'Give crowns and pounds and guineas
But not your heart away;
Give pearls away and rubies
But keep your fancy free.'
But I was four-and-twenty,
No use to talk to me.
When I was four-and-twenty
I heard him say again,
'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 three-and-fifty,
And oh, 'tis true, 'tis true.
October 12, 2014
Really loved the pessimism and descant of his poetry.
Yonder see the morning blink:
The sun is up, and up must I,
To wash and dress and eat and drink
And look at things and talk and think
And work, and God knows why.
Oh often have I washed and dressed
And what's to show for all my pain?
Let me lie abed and rest:
Ten thousand times I've done my best
And all's to do again.
Yonder see the morning blink:
The sun is up, and up must I,
To wash and dress and eat and drink
And look at things and talk and think
And work, and God knows why.
Oh often have I washed and dressed
And what's to show for all my pain?
Let me lie abed and rest:
Ten thousand times I've done my best
And all's to do again.
September 15, 2025
In high school, I read and memorized several poems in A. E. Houseman's "Shropshire Lad." Loved the woodcuts.
Last year, I came across this poem in "A Covert Life," a biography of Jay Lovestone. It was found on a piece of paper in his pocket. The author, better at history than English lit, said it was unattributed. Well, who does it sound like, Walt Whitman?
"Yonder see the morning blink:
The sun is up, and up must I,
To wash and dress and eat and drink
And look at things and talk and think
And work, and God knows why.
"Oh often have I washed and dressed
And what's to show for all my pain?
Let me lie abed and rest:
Ten thousand times I've done my best
And all's to do again."
It's poem XI from "Last Poems." I finally got around to reading the rest of the short collection. Apart from XI, I recommend it mainly as a reminder to reread "Shopshire Lad," which still holds up.
Last year, I came across this poem in "A Covert Life," a biography of Jay Lovestone. It was found on a piece of paper in his pocket. The author, better at history than English lit, said it was unattributed. Well, who does it sound like, Walt Whitman?
"Yonder see the morning blink:
The sun is up, and up must I,
To wash and dress and eat and drink
And look at things and talk and think
And work, and God knows why.
"Oh often have I washed and dressed
And what's to show for all my pain?
Let me lie abed and rest:
Ten thousand times I've done my best
And all's to do again."
It's poem XI from "Last Poems." I finally got around to reading the rest of the short collection. Apart from XI, I recommend it mainly as a reminder to reread "Shopshire Lad," which still holds up.
November 18, 2022
Housman's poems here (largely, not his best) feel anachronistic, out of place not in content but style. But maybe this is a good thing; I can think of nothing worse than poetry that, judged from a distance, is incredibly and obviously of its time, so Housman has avoided that, thankfully.
November 27, 2022
I did not initially expect for the poems to hit so hard, yet they did, compared to some of the other poems I have recently read this actually had skill behind them, a way with words that surprised me.
August 17, 2019
Umm, poetic?
I felt like I was a transcendentalist or esoteric, reading these. They were really out there in the ether someimes.
But, meh, some of it was a bit ho-hum and not too colorful.
I felt like I was a transcendentalist or esoteric, reading these. They were really out there in the ether someimes.
But, meh, some of it was a bit ho-hum and not too colorful.
July 15, 2020
Around the Year in 52 Books 2020: A book that can be read in a day.
September 27, 2024
XV
XX
XVIII
XIX
XXX
XX
XVIII
XIX
XXX
August 26, 2015
A. E Housman is underrated as a poet and his negligence within the poetic cannon probably has to do with his lack of output. As an intellectual, he focused more on scholarly translations which gave his writing an archaic feel at times. In this collection, there is a cycle of poems all covering similar themes and ideas, but they strike you with their poignancy and uniqueness. His metaphors are very distinctive and he makes the most of his extensive vocabulary. A good example is his use of the word "lees" to describe a day which is coming to an end. The dregs of hours passing, dwindling and emptying.
I also like his use of words like: "yonder", "lief" and his foray into obsolescent chemistry with a line like, "Her limbecks dried of poisons",which is a fantastic metaphoric use of such a clinical term. This shows intense creativity, intelligence and bravery and while his work isn't as rich and complex as Hart Crane, it serves as a wistful, lyrical and pastoral sister.
I also like his use of words like: "yonder", "lief" and his foray into obsolescent chemistry with a line like, "Her limbecks dried of poisons",which is a fantastic metaphoric use of such a clinical term. This shows intense creativity, intelligence and bravery and while his work isn't as rich and complex as Hart Crane, it serves as a wistful, lyrical and pastoral sister.
September 29, 2008
Verse rendering of the same theme (and more) as in "Ender's Game": every level gets harder, and there is no one to help.
Excerpt from Housman: "Oh often have I washed and dressed / And what's to show for all my pain? / Let me lie abed and rest: / Ten thousand times I've done my best / And all's to do again."
God be thanked, that's not life's Full story, but it seems all-to-true of our experience of life, at times.
Excerpt from Housman: "Oh often have I washed and dressed / And what's to show for all my pain? / Let me lie abed and rest: / Ten thousand times I've done my best / And all's to do again."
God be thanked, that's not life's Full story, but it seems all-to-true of our experience of life, at times.
July 17, 2012
COULD man be drunk for ever
With liquor, love, or fights,
Lief should I rouse at morning
And lief lie down of nights.
But men at whiles are sober
And think by fits and starts,
And if they think, they fasten
Their hands upon their hearts.
A.E. Housman
October 11, 2012
More great rhyming Stoicism and pessimism in an appealing package.
November 2, 2015
"To An Athlete Dying Young..."
Displaying 1 - 17 of 17 reviews