MikeNorth on Thu Jul 08 2004 wrote:
This was going to be my 400th post, but I got waylaid somewhere, so it's my 406th. In honour of our much-missed friend in here, I thought I would reproduce a couple of poems from his favourite poet, A. E. Housman. Here are two of the poems from his work "A Shropshire Lad":
On Wenlock Edge
On Wenlock Edge, the wood's in trouble
His forest fleece the Wrekin heaves;
The gale, it plies the saplings double,
And thick on Severn snow the leaves.
'Twould blow like this through holt and hanger,
When Uricon the city stood,
'Tis the old wind in the old anger,
But then it threshed another wood.
Then, 'twas before my time, the Roman
At yonder heaving hill would stare,
The blood that warms an English yeoman,
The thoughts that hurt him, they were there.
There, like the wind through woods in riot,
Through him the gale of life blew high,
The tree of man was never quiet,
Then 'twas the Roman, now 'tis I.
The gale it plies the saplings double,
It blows so hard, 'twill soon be gone,
Today the Roman and his trouble,
Are ashes under Uricon.
From far, from eve and morning.
From far, from eve and morning,
And yon twelve-winded sky,
The stuff of life to knit me,
Blew thither, 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 the wind's twelve quarters,
I take my endless way.
A.E. Housman (1859 - 1936)
This was going to be my 400th post, but I got waylaid somewhere, so it's my 406th. In honour of our much-missed friend in here, I thought I would reproduce a couple of poems from his favourite poet, A. E. Housman. Here are two of the poems from his work "A Shropshire Lad":
On Wenlock Edge
On Wenlock Edge, the wood's in trouble
His forest fleece the Wrekin heaves;
The gale, it plies the saplings double,
And thick on Severn snow the leaves.
'Twould blow like this through holt and hanger,
When Uricon the city stood,
'Tis the old wind in the old anger,
But then it threshed another wood.
Then, 'twas before my time, the Roman
At yonder heaving hill would stare,
The blood that warms an English yeoman,
The thoughts that hurt him, they were there.
There, like the wind through woods in riot,
Through him the gale of life blew high,
The tree of man was never quiet,
Then 'twas the Roman, now 'tis I.
The gale it plies the saplings double,
It blows so hard, 'twill soon be gone,
Today the Roman and his trouble,
Are ashes under Uricon.
From far, from eve and morning.
From far, from eve and morning,
And yon twelve-winded sky,
The stuff of life to knit me,
Blew thither, 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 the wind's twelve quarters,
I take my endless way.
A.E. Housman (1859 - 1936)
lol
