47 ordspråk av A. E. Housman
A. E. Housman
A neck God made for other use / Than strangling in a string.
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About the woodlands I will go / To see the cherry hung with snow.
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Ale, man, ale's the stuff to drink for fellows whom it hurts to think.
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And silence sounds no worse than cheers / After death has stopped the ears.
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And the feather pate of folly / Bears the falling of the sky.
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And then the clock collected in the tower / Its strength and struck.
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But men at whiles are sober / And think by fits and starts, / And if they think, they fasten / Their hands upon their hearts.
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Cambridge has seen many strange sights. It has seen Wordsworth drunk, it has seen Porson sober. I am a greater scholar than Wordsworth and I am a greater poet than Porson. So I fall betwixt and between.
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Clay lies still, but blood's a rover; / Breath's a ware that will not keep. / Up, lad; when the journey's over / There'll be time enough for sleep.
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Even when poetry has a meaning, as it usually has, it may be inadvisable to draw it out... Perfect understanding will sometimes almost extinguish pleasure.
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Great literature should do some good to the reader: must quicken his perception though dull, and sharpen his discrimination though blunt, and mellow the rawness of his personal opinions.
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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.
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Here of a Sunday morning / My love and I would lie, / And see the coloured counties, / And hear the larks so high / About us in the sky.
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I find Cambridge an asylum, in every sense of the word.
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If a line of poetry strays into my memory, my skin bristles so that the razor ceases to act.
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