By A. E. Housman
A. E. Housman was once one of many best-loved poets of his day, whose poems conjure up a effective and idyllic rural international imbued with a poignant feel of loss. they're expressed in easy rhythms, but express a great ear for the subtleties of metre and alliteration. His scope is vast -- starting from spiritual doubt to extreme nostalgia for the geographical region. This quantity brings jointly 'A Shropshire Lad' (1896) and 'Last Poems' (1922), besides the posthumous decisions 'More Poems' and 'Additional Poems', and 3 translations of extracts from Aeschylus, Sophocles and Euripides that demonstrate his mastery of Classical literature.
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Extra resources for A Shropshire Lad and Other Poems: The Collected Poems of A.E. Housman
Why? Is it so I can call out when I'm tired: 0 Father, my friend? 0 friend! Which one of us died before the other . . I? Or my friend? 15 T RUCE WITH THE M ONGOLS BY THE H OL M DAB: F O REST Some creatures of holm oak have been standing long there on the hill . . perhaps the grass will rise from our bread toward them if we leave the place, and perhaps the heavenly lapis will descend from them toward the shadow over the citadels. But who will fill up our ceramics after us? Who will alter our enemies when they know we are climbing the hill to praise God .
0 master of shrouded trees over the shadow of lavender's shadow, master of the stone whose blood your palms wrung out . . have you exited the marble to return to it? Tell me why did you bring me here, Father . . why? Is it so I can call out when I'm tired: 0 Father, my friend? 0 friend! Which one of us died before the other . . I? Or my friend? 15 T RUCE WITH THE M ONGOLS BY THE H OL M DAB: F O REST Some creatures of holm oak have been standing long there on the hill . . perhaps the grass will rise from our bread toward them if we leave the place, and perhaps the heavenly lapis will descend from them toward the shadow over the citadels.
Then I doze on his knee on the numbness of fatigue . . I recall the plants: the chrysanthemum flock leads me to Aleppo. My imagination takes me past the mountain of the flute, I run after the flute and run after the birds to learn to fly. I have hidden my secret in what the forefathers say, there behind the hill. You have often distanced me from what I try t-o be and not be . . you know I want what the flowers give, not the salt. You have often brought me near the distant star of futility, Father.
A Shropshire Lad and Other Poems: The Collected Poems of A.E. Housman by A. E. Housman