Alfred Edward Housman

(26 March 1859 – 30 April 1936 / Worcestershire)

Alfred Edward Housman Poems

1. 1887 1/3/2003
2. A Shropshire Lad, Ii 2/18/2015
3. Along The Field As We Came By 12/31/2002
4. As Through The Wild Green Hills Of Wyre 1/3/2003
5. Be Still, My Soul, Be Still 1/3/2003
6. Bredon Hill 1/3/2003
7. Bring, In This Timeless Grave To Throw 1/3/2003
8. Could Man Be Drunk Forever 1/3/2003
9. Diffugere Nives 1/3/2003
10. Eight O'Clock 1/3/2003
11. Epitaph On An Army Of Mercenaries 1/3/2003
12. Far In A Western Brookland 1/3/2003
13. Farewell To Barn And Stack And Tree 1/3/2003
14. Fragment Of A Greek Tragedy 12/31/2002
15. From Far, From Eve And Morning 1/3/2003
16. Goodnight 11/28/2014
17. Hell's Gate 6/26/2015
18. Her Strong Enchantments Failing 11/25/2015
19. Here Dead We Lie 12/24/2003
20. Ho, Everyone That Thirsteth 1/3/2003
21. Hughley Steeple 1/3/2003
22. I Hoed And Trenched And Weeded 1/3/2003
23. I: Easter Hymn 12/17/2014
24. If By Chance Your Eye Offend You 1/3/2003
25. If Truth In Hearts That Perish 1/3/2003
26. In My Own Shire, If I Was Sad 1/3/2003
27. In Valleys Of Springs And Rivers 1/3/2003
28. Into My Heart An Air That Kills 1/3/2003
29. Is My Team Ploughing 1/3/2003
30. It Nods And Curtseys And Recovers 1/3/2003
31. Loitering With A Vacant Eye 1/3/2003
32. Look Not In My Eyes, For Fear 1/3/2003
33. Loveliest Of Trees, The Cherry Now 1/3/2003
34. Lx: Now Hollow Fires Burn Out To Black 1/28/2014
35. March 1/3/2003
36. Now Hollow Fires Burn Out To Black 1/3/2003
37. O Why Do You Walk (A Parody) 1/3/2003
38. Oh Fair Enough Are Sky And Plain 1/3/2003
39. Oh Stay At Home, My Lad 1/3/2003
40. Oh Who Is That Young Sinner 1/3/2003
Best Poem of Alfred Edward Housman

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.

To-day, the road all runners come,
Shoulder-high we bring you home,
And set you at your threshold down,
Townsman of a stiller town.

Smart lad, to slip betimes away
From fields where glory does not stay
And early though the laurel grows
It withers quicker than the rose.

Eyes the shady night has shut
Cannot see the record cut,
And silence sounds no worse than cheers
After earth has ...

Read the full of To An Athlete Dying Young

Eight O'Clock

He stood, and heard the steeple
Sprinkle the quarters on the morning town.
One, two, three, four, to market-place and people
It tossed them down.

Strapped, noosed, nighing his hour,
He stood and counted them and cursed his luck;
And then the clock collected in the tower
Its strength, and struck.

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