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The Collected Poems
This volume constitutes the authorized canon of A.E. Housman's verse as it was established in 1939, three years after his death. In contains A Shropshire Lad , Last Poems , More Poems , the Additional Poems , and the three translations from A.W. Pollard's anthology, Odes from the Greek Dramatists .
256 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1939
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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 - 30 of 70 reviews
February 13, 2024
This was my second attempt at poetry and it went over about the same as the first, not at all! I found I was just reading them to get it over with, and garnishing no enjoyment from them whatsoever. I'm trying to be more refined and sophisticated in some of my reading, poetry, plays, and existentialism, so far poetry has been the hardest to enjoy. I'm going to try a few more tho before I give up on poetry altogether.
November 18, 2007
One of my favorites:
XVI
How clear, how lovely bright
How beautiful to sight
Those beams of morning play;
How heaven laughs out with glee
Where, like a bird set free,
Up from the eastern sea
Soars the delightful day.
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 vow
I never kept before.
Ensanguining the skies
How heavily it dies
Into the west away;
Past touch and sight and sound
Not further to be found
How hopeless underground
Falls the remorseful day.
XVI
How clear, how lovely bright
How beautiful to sight
Those beams of morning play;
How heaven laughs out with glee
Where, like a bird set free,
Up from the eastern sea
Soars the delightful day.
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 vow
I never kept before.
Ensanguining the skies
How heavily it dies
Into the west away;
Past touch and sight and sound
Not further to be found
How hopeless underground
Falls the remorseful day.
July 13, 2011
Forgive the format but I couldn't resist:
I read this collection
Whilst suffering the heat
Of another year's vacation
And found the writer neat.
While maudlin and morose,
Houseman's depiction of youthful love
As naive, beautiful and verbose
Fit my memories of it like a glove.
I read this collection
Whilst suffering the heat
Of another year's vacation
And found the writer neat.
While maudlin and morose,
Houseman's depiction of youthful love
As naive, beautiful and verbose
Fit my memories of it like a glove.
December 5, 2009
Unrequited love and youthful death are the author's recurrent themes. Always forthright and devoid of the esoteric and modernistic qualities of more revered poets, Housman's work, though imbued with a pronounced melancholy, is never strident or sanctimonious. It is through the symmetry of theme that Housman achieves the solemnity which lends these justly celebrated poems their stature.
I feel that any discussion of A. E. Housman's poetry should first acknowledge that he was never a poet in the same sense as Whitman, Auden or Ginsberg. he was first, and foremost, a scholar, the Chair of Latin at Cambridge and an academic legend. Thus it seems churlish for his detractors to take the rather meagre amount of poetry he produced and deride it for it's lack of thematic multiplicity.
A closeted homosexual, Housman's poetry is perhaps most distinctive for it allusive qualities. One revels in the allegorical poem XVIII from Additional Poems: "Oh they're taking him to prison for the colour of his hair." Perhaps my favorite in this collection full of favorites is XXXI from More Poems:
"Because I liked you better
Than suits a man to say,
It irked you, and I promised
To throw the thought away.
To put the world between us
We parted, stiff and dry;
'Good-bye', said you, 'forget me.'
'I will, no fear' said I.
If here, where clover whitens
The dead man's knoll, you pass,
And no tall flower to meet you
Starts in the trefoiled grass,
Halt by the headstone naming
The heart no longer stirred,
And say the lad that loved you
Was one that kept his word."
Haunting. First rate. A masterful collection.
I feel that any discussion of A. E. Housman's poetry should first acknowledge that he was never a poet in the same sense as Whitman, Auden or Ginsberg. he was first, and foremost, a scholar, the Chair of Latin at Cambridge and an academic legend. Thus it seems churlish for his detractors to take the rather meagre amount of poetry he produced and deride it for it's lack of thematic multiplicity.
A closeted homosexual, Housman's poetry is perhaps most distinctive for it allusive qualities. One revels in the allegorical poem XVIII from Additional Poems: "Oh they're taking him to prison for the colour of his hair." Perhaps my favorite in this collection full of favorites is XXXI from More Poems:
"Because I liked you better
Than suits a man to say,
It irked you, and I promised
To throw the thought away.
To put the world between us
We parted, stiff and dry;
'Good-bye', said you, 'forget me.'
'I will, no fear' said I.
If here, where clover whitens
The dead man's knoll, you pass,
And no tall flower to meet you
Starts in the trefoiled grass,
Halt by the headstone naming
The heart no longer stirred,
And say the lad that loved you
Was one that kept his word."
Haunting. First rate. A masterful collection.
November 25, 2010
Yes, I know. How dreadfully unfashionable! And yet... I've loved Housman's poetry since high school. I love his pastiches of both Sappho and the Greek Anthology, I love the clear-eyed and Stoic sense of fate and loss, I love the crisp precision. This is a volume I've had on my shelves since I was sixteen--- replaced over and over. And it'll always be a favourite.
January 6, 2015
I have loved, do love and shall love Housman. Way out of fashion, like my other young love Swinburne. I spent more time with them than with those thought better poets, early in life, and have no regrets. It's true the alt sexuality helped in both cases. Perhaps I can liken Housman to the lyrics of The Smiths. I think I can.
October 23, 2022
Crying English countryside tears over the excessive use of the word lad. Please stop ✋
November 16, 2025
If there’s a prevailing theme to this collection of Housman’s works, it has to be fatalism—or perhaps more precisely, mortality. That doesn’t translate into gloom or despair; far from it. Housman loves life, and as he says at the conclusion of selection LVII in “A Shropshire Lad,”
I shall have lived a little while
Before I die forever.
There’s an abundance of memorable lines and phrases in Housman’s work, such as:
Wanderers eastward, wanderers west,
Know you why you cannot rest?
‘Tis that every mother’s son
Travails with a skeleton.
Those words must have appealed to Kathleen Winsor, since chose them as title for one of her honking great novels.
“A Shropshire Lad” published in 1896, occupies the first half of the book. Even in that cycle, written before the “Great War” there’s a prevailing disillusionment with the imperialist world and its conflicts—or at best, resigned acceptance toward the fate of the ordinary man, as represented by the iconic Shropshire lad.
But in the cycles written after the war, his outlook becomes markedly less forgiving. At the conclusion of “The Grenadier” he writes:
To-morrow after new young men
The sergeant he must see,
For things will all be over then
Between the Queen and me.
And I shall have to bate my price,
For in the grave they say,
Is neither knowledge nor device
Nor thirteen pence a day.
Later, he explores that theme even more bluntly:
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.
Housman’s advice to the next “lad” is telling:
Oh, stay at home, my lad, and plough
The land and not the sea,
And leave the soldiers at their drill
And all about the idle hill
Shepherd your sheep with me.
Housman’s voice is less strident than that of Wilfred Owen or Siegfried Sassoon, but he makes his point, while yet retaining a wry sense of the folly of man — especially the young “lad.”
Very satisfying work.
I shall have lived a little while
Before I die forever.
There’s an abundance of memorable lines and phrases in Housman’s work, such as:
Wanderers eastward, wanderers west,
Know you why you cannot rest?
‘Tis that every mother’s son
Travails with a skeleton.
Those words must have appealed to Kathleen Winsor, since chose them as title for one of her honking great novels.
“A Shropshire Lad” published in 1896, occupies the first half of the book. Even in that cycle, written before the “Great War” there’s a prevailing disillusionment with the imperialist world and its conflicts—or at best, resigned acceptance toward the fate of the ordinary man, as represented by the iconic Shropshire lad.
But in the cycles written after the war, his outlook becomes markedly less forgiving. At the conclusion of “The Grenadier” he writes:
To-morrow after new young men
The sergeant he must see,
For things will all be over then
Between the Queen and me.
And I shall have to bate my price,
For in the grave they say,
Is neither knowledge nor device
Nor thirteen pence a day.
Later, he explores that theme even more bluntly:
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.
Housman’s advice to the next “lad” is telling:
Oh, stay at home, my lad, and plough
The land and not the sea,
And leave the soldiers at their drill
And all about the idle hill
Shepherd your sheep with me.
Housman’s voice is less strident than that of Wilfred Owen or Siegfried Sassoon, but he makes his point, while yet retaining a wry sense of the folly of man — especially the young “lad.”
Very satisfying work.
May 12, 2024
Three poems that demonstrate his hidden homosexuality:
XXX
Shake hands, we shall never be friends, all's over;
I only vex you the more I try.
All's wrong that ever I've done or said,
And nought to help it in this dull head:
Shake hands, here's luck, good-bye.
But if you come to a road where danger
Or guilt or anguish or shame's to share,
Be good to the lad that loves you true
And the soul that was born to die for you,
And whistle and I'll be there.
XXXI
Because I liked you better
Than suits a man to say,
It irked you, and I promised
To throw the thought away.
To put the world between us
We parted, stiff and dry;
`Good-bye,' said you, `forget me.'
`I will, no fear', said I.
If here, where clover whitens
The dead man's knoll, you pass,
And no tall flower to meet you
Starts in the trefoiled grass,
Halt by the headstone naming
The heart no longer stirred,
And say the lad that loved you
Was one that kept his word.
XXXVI
Here dead lie we because we did not choose
To live and shame the land from which we sprung.
Life, to be sure, is nothing much to lose;
But young men think it is, and we were young.
XXX
Shake hands, we shall never be friends, all's over;
I only vex you the more I try.
All's wrong that ever I've done or said,
And nought to help it in this dull head:
Shake hands, here's luck, good-bye.
But if you come to a road where danger
Or guilt or anguish or shame's to share,
Be good to the lad that loves you true
And the soul that was born to die for you,
And whistle and I'll be there.
XXXI
Because I liked you better
Than suits a man to say,
It irked you, and I promised
To throw the thought away.
To put the world between us
We parted, stiff and dry;
`Good-bye,' said you, `forget me.'
`I will, no fear', said I.
If here, where clover whitens
The dead man's knoll, you pass,
And no tall flower to meet you
Starts in the trefoiled grass,
Halt by the headstone naming
The heart no longer stirred,
And say the lad that loved you
Was one that kept his word.
XXXVI
Here dead lie we because we did not choose
To live and shame the land from which we sprung.
Life, to be sure, is nothing much to lose;
But young men think it is, and we were young.
August 30, 2014
To an Athlete Dying Young
The time you won your town the race
We chaired you through the market-place;
Man and boy stood cheering by,
And home we brought you shoulder-high.
Today, the road all runners come,
Shoulder-high we bring you home,
And set you at your threshold down,
Townsman of a stiller town.
This is one of my favorite poems in this collection. I like it so much that I can't see how any lover of poetry could fail to respond to it.
December 26, 2017
Wonderful lyrical poetry which has so many memorable lines. These are often very dark with an underlying theme of tragedy and death. Housman's sexuality underlies much of his verse but setting this aside, the poems are great literature. I might allow that I know the country quite well, having lived there for 10 years and this certainly adds to the joy of reading his collection. I have not entered a finish date because I never will finish the book.
September 24, 2007
favorite poem
Untitled by A.E. Housman
I to my perils
Of cheat and charmer
Came clad in armour
By stars benign.
Hope lies to mortals
And most believe her,
But man’s deceiver
Was never mine.
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.
Untitled by A.E. Housman
I to my perils
Of cheat and charmer
Came clad in armour
By stars benign.
Hope lies to mortals
And most believe her,
But man’s deceiver
Was never mine.
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.
March 11, 2019
Finished this morning, Yay! Ah, that Housman.
I picked up this book in a used bookstore because of his best poem, simply titled "Poem II" in A Shropshire Lad, which I was familiar with as it is a beautiful poem and someone I admired, Dr. Wolfe Blotzer, recited it once in my presence from memory and I chimed in at the last stanza:
"Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
Is hung with bloom along the bough,
And stands about the woodland ride
Wearing white for Eastertide
Now, of my threescore and ten,
Twenty will not come again,
And take from seventy springs a score,
It only leaves me fifty more.
And since to look at things in bloom
Fifty springs are little room,
About the woodlands I will go
To see the cherry hung with snow."
So I presumed Housman's other poetry would be lyrical, with lovely images and hopes for the future and a "making the best" of nature and weather and time. Alas, I was mistaken.
Pretty much ALL the other poems are about death, and dead soldiers, and suicide, and more death, and depression, and wishing-I-were-dead-but-sadly-I-have-to-live-my-sucky-life, and "poems to be read in a Cemetery whilst standing in front of a Headstone" and "poems to be read at a Funeral" and still more death, and hopelessness, and despair, and pointlessness. The pointlessness of war, of life, of death, of youth, of love.
There were at least three poems about "I am far away from The Shire and am in the cold city of London and it totally bites here" and at least two about "I killed someone and now I am going to hang" and a few about "so because the other guy is dead I now have his girl how lucky for me but not so lucky for him ha ha." There are many many poems about "War is Hell and Bullshit and all my friends are dead and I miss them so much but there is nothing to be done, they are better off dead because all of life is stupid."
Housman was an Atheist who did not believe in an Afterlife, so his poems contain a university of corpses rotting in endless eternity, mouldering in the charnel under the darnel.
Not being an Atheist or particularly depressed, there were few poems that interested me of the hundreds in this tome.
He was also homosexual which was good because it inspired him to write a few poems that I could relate to, regarding unrequited love.
Even "The Loveliest of Trees", the poem above, is actually about Death, but I guess he got laid the day he wrote it or something else good happened to him to lighten his despair, or maybe he was interrupted before he could write his usual downer final stanza.
It is a testament to my determination that I actually read every poem, many out loud.
In his defense, Housman was an extremely intelligent, talented scholar, and some of the poems are very clever and scan well. Most of them rhyme perfectly.
Who would like these poems? Hard to imagine anyone "liking" these poems.
If you are a suicidally depressed Atheist, these poems are meant for you! Enjoy!
P.S.
In the interest of complete fairness:
Today, I finally found a second poem I really liked, that was NOT, for once, about Death without hope for Resurrection. Still gloomy, not cheerful, not hopeful, but regardless, the ironic tone made me laugh out loud.
I think it is about Homophobia (perhaps even about Oscar Wilde), but it could just as easily be about Racism or Ableism or Fat Shaming. It is great!
Here you go:
Additional Poems Number XVIII
"Oh who is that young sinner with the handcuffs on his wrists?
And what has he been after that they groan and shake their fists?
And wherefore is he wearing such a conscience-stricken air?
Oh they're taking him to prison for the colour of his hair.
'Tis a shame to human nature, such a head of hair as his;
In the good old time 'twas hanging for the colour that it is;
Though hanging isn't bad enough and flaying would be fair
For the nameless and abominable colour of his hair.
Oh a deal of pains he's taken and a pretty price he's paid
To hide his poll or dye it of a mentionable shade;
But they've pulled the beggar's hat off for the world to see and stare,
And they're haling him to justice for the colour of his hair.
Now 'tis oakum for his fingers and the treadmill for his feet,
And the quarry-gang on Portland in the cold and in the heat,
And between his spells of labour in the time he has to spare
He can curse the God that made him for the colour of his hair."
Hats off to A.E. Housman, 1859 to 1936
I picked up this book in a used bookstore because of his best poem, simply titled "Poem II" in A Shropshire Lad, which I was familiar with as it is a beautiful poem and someone I admired, Dr. Wolfe Blotzer, recited it once in my presence from memory and I chimed in at the last stanza:
"Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
Is hung with bloom along the bough,
And stands about the woodland ride
Wearing white for Eastertide
Now, of my threescore and ten,
Twenty will not come again,
And take from seventy springs a score,
It only leaves me fifty more.
And since to look at things in bloom
Fifty springs are little room,
About the woodlands I will go
To see the cherry hung with snow."
So I presumed Housman's other poetry would be lyrical, with lovely images and hopes for the future and a "making the best" of nature and weather and time. Alas, I was mistaken.
Pretty much ALL the other poems are about death, and dead soldiers, and suicide, and more death, and depression, and wishing-I-were-dead-but-sadly-I-have-to-live-my-sucky-life, and "poems to be read in a Cemetery whilst standing in front of a Headstone" and "poems to be read at a Funeral" and still more death, and hopelessness, and despair, and pointlessness. The pointlessness of war, of life, of death, of youth, of love.
There were at least three poems about "I am far away from The Shire and am in the cold city of London and it totally bites here" and at least two about "I killed someone and now I am going to hang" and a few about "so because the other guy is dead I now have his girl how lucky for me but not so lucky for him ha ha." There are many many poems about "War is Hell and Bullshit and all my friends are dead and I miss them so much but there is nothing to be done, they are better off dead because all of life is stupid."
Housman was an Atheist who did not believe in an Afterlife, so his poems contain a university of corpses rotting in endless eternity, mouldering in the charnel under the darnel.
Not being an Atheist or particularly depressed, there were few poems that interested me of the hundreds in this tome.
He was also homosexual which was good because it inspired him to write a few poems that I could relate to, regarding unrequited love.
Even "The Loveliest of Trees", the poem above, is actually about Death, but I guess he got laid the day he wrote it or something else good happened to him to lighten his despair, or maybe he was interrupted before he could write his usual downer final stanza.
It is a testament to my determination that I actually read every poem, many out loud.
In his defense, Housman was an extremely intelligent, talented scholar, and some of the poems are very clever and scan well. Most of them rhyme perfectly.
Who would like these poems? Hard to imagine anyone "liking" these poems.
If you are a suicidally depressed Atheist, these poems are meant for you! Enjoy!
P.S.
In the interest of complete fairness:
Today, I finally found a second poem I really liked, that was NOT, for once, about Death without hope for Resurrection. Still gloomy, not cheerful, not hopeful, but regardless, the ironic tone made me laugh out loud.
I think it is about Homophobia (perhaps even about Oscar Wilde), but it could just as easily be about Racism or Ableism or Fat Shaming. It is great!
Here you go:
Additional Poems Number XVIII
"Oh who is that young sinner with the handcuffs on his wrists?
And what has he been after that they groan and shake their fists?
And wherefore is he wearing such a conscience-stricken air?
Oh they're taking him to prison for the colour of his hair.
'Tis a shame to human nature, such a head of hair as his;
In the good old time 'twas hanging for the colour that it is;
Though hanging isn't bad enough and flaying would be fair
For the nameless and abominable colour of his hair.
Oh a deal of pains he's taken and a pretty price he's paid
To hide his poll or dye it of a mentionable shade;
But they've pulled the beggar's hat off for the world to see and stare,
And they're haling him to justice for the colour of his hair.
Now 'tis oakum for his fingers and the treadmill for his feet,
And the quarry-gang on Portland in the cold and in the heat,
And between his spells of labour in the time he has to spare
He can curse the God that made him for the colour of his hair."
Hats off to A.E. Housman, 1859 to 1936
January 9, 2019
I will likely remember this book for a number of reasons, none of which align. It's the book I read instead of watching the presidential address regarding the 2019 government shutdown/wall funding, because as a federal contractor facing our household losing half its income, I'm too enraged to watch such drivel. This book, its poems, was all the more pleasurable and stimulating. It's also the book I received from a dear friend who loves it so much that it makes me love it too. Her post its indicating favorite poems made it all the more pleasurable and I think I may adopt the habit with my own favorite book of poems and send along copies with little notes within in the future. It's also the first book I completed in the new year.
By far, my favorite poem was The Merry Guide followed by Easter Hymn. Often when I read poetry I'll read it quietly or occasionally murmur the verbiage but with these two I returned to the poem after my initial read through and read them out loud not once, but twice, and I've gone back to them since.
It's always such a pleasure to discover new-to-me poets and even all the better that it was a discovery through love and appreciation from one book worm to another. I think the very emotion behind my ownership of the book made me like it all the more and I'm glad to have read it; I've come away feeling more well rounded, which is generally a goal of mine when reading poetry.
By far, my favorite poem was The Merry Guide followed by Easter Hymn. Often when I read poetry I'll read it quietly or occasionally murmur the verbiage but with these two I returned to the poem after my initial read through and read them out loud not once, but twice, and I've gone back to them since.
It's always such a pleasure to discover new-to-me poets and even all the better that it was a discovery through love and appreciation from one book worm to another. I think the very emotion behind my ownership of the book made me like it all the more and I'm glad to have read it; I've come away feeling more well rounded, which is generally a goal of mine when reading poetry.
December 18, 2023
“When the eye of day is shut,
And the stars deny their beams,
And about the forest hut
Blows the roaring wood of dreams,
From deep clay, from desert rock,
From the sunk sands of the main,
Come not at my door to knock,
Hearts that loved me not again.
Sleep, be still, turn to your rest
In the lands where you are laid;
In far lodgings east and west
Lie down on the beds you made.
In gross marl, in blowing dust,
In the drowned ooze of the sea,
Where you would not, lie you must,
Lie you must, and not with me.”
“The winds out of the west land blow,
My friends have breathed them there;
Warm with the blood of lads I know
Comes east the sighing air.
It fanned their temples, filled their lungs,Scattered their forelocks free;
My friends made words of it with tongues
That talk no more to me.
Their voices, dying as they fly,
Loose on the wind are sown;
The names of men blow soundless by,My fellows’ and my own.
Oh lads, at home I heard you plain,
But here your speech is still,
And down the sighing wind in vain
You hollo from the hill.
The wind and I, we both were there,
But neither long abode;
Now through the friendless world we fare
And sigh upon the road.”
And the stars deny their beams,
And about the forest hut
Blows the roaring wood of dreams,
From deep clay, from desert rock,
From the sunk sands of the main,
Come not at my door to knock,
Hearts that loved me not again.
Sleep, be still, turn to your rest
In the lands where you are laid;
In far lodgings east and west
Lie down on the beds you made.
In gross marl, in blowing dust,
In the drowned ooze of the sea,
Where you would not, lie you must,
Lie you must, and not with me.”
“The winds out of the west land blow,
My friends have breathed them there;
Warm with the blood of lads I know
Comes east the sighing air.
It fanned their temples, filled their lungs,Scattered their forelocks free;
My friends made words of it with tongues
That talk no more to me.
Their voices, dying as they fly,
Loose on the wind are sown;
The names of men blow soundless by,My fellows’ and my own.
Oh lads, at home I heard you plain,
But here your speech is still,
And down the sighing wind in vain
You hollo from the hill.
The wind and I, we both were there,
But neither long abode;
Now through the friendless world we fare
And sigh upon the road.”
September 9, 2019
Having just read Tom Stoppard's The Invention of Love, a play based on the life of A.E. Housman, I decided to read his poems. The most famous collection, of course, is A Shropshire Lad; the other parts are titled, imaginatively, Last Poems, More Poems and Additional Poems. I have to admit, Housman will not ever be my favorite poet. The poems are all rather the same, short poems about young men who died, some as soldiers, some by suicide, some hanged, etc. and are lying about under the ground being dead and reciting poems about it. They all have simple rhyme schemes, ABAB CDCD or AABB CCDD, and many of them seem to have the sentence order inverted or all twisted about to get the rhyme words at the end of the lines. There are a few memorable lines, and some of the poems have classical allusions -- Housman was really more of a scholar than a poet, but I was not impressed in general.
January 1, 2017
Marvellous. Not all poems in here are as good as each other—this is to be expected in a near exhaustive collection—but when Housman writes well, he writes well indeed. There is a faint melancholy that fills his poetry, but which is rarely overstated. His nostalgic poems on loss in war are often the best.
January 3, 2017
He words my thoughts far better than I can think them.
July 9, 2023
A strong collection of poetry.
September 12, 2022
What Houseman is most famous for; his jaunty, morose, violent, tongue-in-cheek adventures of A Shropshire Lad (and this inhabited world) soon became tiresome, distasteful, and dull to me the more I read. A few poems of this style may have been amusing if he had known when to stop. This was not helped, either, by his indefatigably cryptic style in many of his violent verses.
An example of this repeating gruesome twaddle would be:
...Here is a knife like other knives,
That cost me eighteen pence.
I need but stick it in my heart
And down will come the sky,
And earth's foundations will depart
And all you folk will die.
I was surprisingly charmed, however, by his very different and much more simple poems on the real world - descriptions of wartime brotherly sacrifice and camaraderie (much based on WW1), the charms of a pretty village girl, or the nostalgia of lively country lads.
When first my way to fair I took
Few pence in purse had I,
And long I used to stand and look
At things I could not buy
or:
I sought them far and found them,
The sure, the straight, the brave,
the hearts I lost my own too,
The souls I could not save.
They braced their belts bout them,
They crossed in ships the sea,
They sought and found six feet of ground,
And there they died for me.
An example of this repeating gruesome twaddle would be:
...Here is a knife like other knives,
That cost me eighteen pence.
I need but stick it in my heart
And down will come the sky,
And earth's foundations will depart
And all you folk will die.
I was surprisingly charmed, however, by his very different and much more simple poems on the real world - descriptions of wartime brotherly sacrifice and camaraderie (much based on WW1), the charms of a pretty village girl, or the nostalgia of lively country lads.
When first my way to fair I took
Few pence in purse had I,
And long I used to stand and look
At things I could not buy
or:
I sought them far and found them,
The sure, the straight, the brave,
the hearts I lost my own too,
The souls I could not save.
They braced their belts bout them,
They crossed in ships the sea,
They sought and found six feet of ground,
And there they died for me.
September 18, 2017
This is a fine collection of Housman’s poems. Housman is both musical and sad. Like the great, modern, sad song-writers, Housman’s poems put the reader into a state of appreciative melancholy. My 3 favorites in the collection are representative of this. All in all, highly recommended.
From “Last Poems – IX”
“Additional Poems – V”
“Additional Poems – X”
See my other reviews here!
From “Last Poems – IX”
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.
“Additional Poems – V”
Here are the skies, the planets seven,
And all the starry train:
Content you with the mimic heaven,
And on the earth remain.
“Additional Poems – X”
Oh on my breast in days hereafter
Light the earth should lie,
Such weight to bear is now the air,
So heavy hangs the sky.
See my other reviews here!
May 21, 2023
Wouldn't Recommend reading if you're having an off day or feeling down as the poems in this are quite depressing. Some of the lines and poems aren't terrible but I feel like I need more info on author and basically go back in time to understand his work more. I like that they added a lecture the author did but found it hard to get through with language used, I ended up confused with lecture with what Housman was trying to get across. I'm glad that there was some info on author at the beginning to but yes this book did being me down quite a bit.
December 19, 2025
Super good, had not heard about him until his poems were quoted in "The Hallmarked Man". Some of his imagery and phrasing is fantastic. I very much like how much he could do with some fairly strict forms. The rhythm and rhyming push the meaning.
One negative is he was very melancholic - lots of die young, never see home again stuff. Normal for the era but can get a bit depressing if you read too many at once. I now want to buy a copy and work on memorizing some of the poems.
One negative is he was very melancholic - lots of die young, never see home again stuff. Normal for the era but can get a bit depressing if you read too many at once. I now want to buy a copy and work on memorizing some of the poems.
February 24, 2021
Of course I love this book - Housman was the first English poet I came across some twenty years ago. For me, everything started with "I, a stranger and afraid, in a world I never made" and only went uphill from there. This book is especially valuable as it combines all the poet's verse and even adds some of his speeches and essays on poetry.
October 28, 2018
This was my first encounter with Housman, and I must say it was a pleasure to come across his writing. He reminds me of Poe, sans the Victorian flare.
Here is one of the many I adored:
𝘍𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘧𝘢𝘳, 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘦𝘷𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨
𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘸𝘦𝘭𝘷𝘦-𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘬𝘺,
𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘧𝘧 𝘰𝘧 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘬𝘯𝘪𝘵 𝘮𝘦
𝘉𝘭𝘦𝘸 𝘩𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳: 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘮 𝘐.
𝘕𝘰𝘸 - 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘐 𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘺
𝘕𝘰𝘳 𝘺𝘦𝘵 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘦 𝘢𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵 -
𝘛𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘮𝘺 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘮𝘦,
𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘪𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵.
𝘚𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘬 𝘯𝘰𝘸, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘐 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘢𝘯𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘳;
𝘏𝘰𝘸 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘐 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘱 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘴𝘢𝘺;
𝘌𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘥'𝘴 𝘵𝘸𝘦𝘭𝘷𝘦 𝘲𝘶𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘴
𝘐 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘮𝘺 𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘸𝘢𝘺.
Here is one of the many I adored:
𝘍𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘧𝘢𝘳, 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘦𝘷𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨
𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘸𝘦𝘭𝘷𝘦-𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘬𝘺,
𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘧𝘧 𝘰𝘧 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘬𝘯𝘪𝘵 𝘮𝘦
𝘉𝘭𝘦𝘸 𝘩𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳: 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘮 𝘐.
𝘕𝘰𝘸 - 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘐 𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘺
𝘕𝘰𝘳 𝘺𝘦𝘵 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘦 𝘢𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵 -
𝘛𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘮𝘺 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘮𝘦,
𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘪𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵.
𝘚𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘬 𝘯𝘰𝘸, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘐 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘢𝘯𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘳;
𝘏𝘰𝘸 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘐 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘱 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘴𝘢𝘺;
𝘌𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘥'𝘴 𝘵𝘸𝘦𝘭𝘷𝘦 𝘲𝘶𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘴
𝘐 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘮𝘺 𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘸𝘢𝘺.
November 17, 2022
I'm not usually one for rhyming poems, but this one (published posthumously) got to me:
He would not stay for me; and who can wonder?
He would not stay for me to stand and gaze.
I shook his hand and tore my heart in sunder
And went with half my life about my ways.
He would not stay for me; and who can wonder?
He would not stay for me to stand and gaze.
I shook his hand and tore my heart in sunder
And went with half my life about my ways.
August 29, 2023
5/5 stars. It’s strange to label this poetry “nice”, but Housman certainly managed to find beauty in sadness, and vice versa. The subject matter should be depressing as hell, but his way with words makes it in turns bittersweet, ironic, sarcastic, romantic, noble, celebratory and heartbreaking.
March 14, 2019
He is considered one of the lesser poets but i think it's great
May 23, 2019
Every once in a while I enjoy pulling out poetry.
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