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In the real countenance there are no tears or grievances, but a quizzical, humorous expression which shows, when one has torn the subterfuge away, that here is a spirit whom life may menace with its contradictions and fatalities, but never dupe with its circumstance and mystery. All this quite points to, and partly explains, the charm of the poems in A Shropshire Lad. The fastidious care with which each poem is built out of the simplest of technical elements, the precise tone and color of language employed to articulate impulse and mood, and the reproduction of objective substances for a clear visualization of character and scene, all tend by a sure and unfaltering composition, to present a lyric art unique in English poetry of the last twenty-five years.

I dare say I have scarcely touched upon the secret of Mr. For some it may radiate from the Shropshire life he so finely etches; for others, in the vivid artistic simplicity and unity of values, through which Shropshire lads and landscapes are presented.


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It must be, however, in the miraculous fusing of the two. Whatever that secret is, the charm of it never fails after all these years to keep the poems preserved with a freshness and vitality, which are the qualities of enduring genius. A Shropshire Lad A.

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Housman With an introduction by William Stanley Braithwaite. This web edition published by eBooks Adelaide. Last updated Wednesday, December 17, at To skies that knit their heartstrings right, To fields that bred them brave, The saviours come not home to-night: Themselves they could not save. We pledge in peace by farm and town The Queen they served in war, And fire the beacons up and down The land they perished for.

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Now, of my threescore years 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. Come you home a hero, Or come not home at all, The lads you leave will mind you Till Ludlow tower shall fall. And you will list the bugle That blows in lands of morn, And make the foes of England Be sorry you were born. And you till trump of doomsday On lands of morn may lie, And make the hearts of comrades Be heavy where you die.

Leave your home behind you, Your friends by field and town Oh, town and field will mind you Till Ludlow tower is down. Wake: the vaulted shadow shatters, Trampled to the floor it spanned, And the tent of night in tatters Straws the sky-pavilioned land. Towns and countries woo together, Forelands beacon, belfries call; Never lad that trod on leather Lived to feast his heart with all. Up, lad: thews that lie and cumber Sunlit pallets never thrive; Morns abed and daylight slumber Were not meant for man alive. Oh may I squire you round the meads And pick you posies gay? What flowers to-day may flower to-morrow, But never as good as new.

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Then keep your heart for men like me And safe from trustless chaps. My love is true and all for you. Oh, look in my eyes, then, can you doubt? How green the grass is all about! We might as well sit down. Why must true lovers sigh? Then you can lie down forlorn; But the lover will be well. The blackbird in the coppice Looked out to see me stride, And hearkened as I whistled The tramping team beside, And fluted and replied:. Rise man a thousand mornings Yet down at last he lies, And then the man is wise.

I heard the tune he sang me, And spied his yellow bill; I picked a stone and aimed it And threw it with a will: Then the bird was still. Terence, look your last at me, For I come home no more. They hang us now in Shrewsbury jail: The whistles blow forlorn, And trains all night groan on the rail To men that die at morn. There sleeps in Shrewsbury jail to-night, Or wakes, as may betide, A better lad, if things went right, Than most that sleep outside.


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  7. And sharp the link of life will snap, And dead on air will stand Heels that held up as straight a chap As treads upon the land. So braver notes the storm-cock sings To start the rusted wheel of things, And brutes in field and brutes in pen Leap that the world goes round again. The boys are up the woods with day To fetch the daffodils away, And home at noonday from the hills They bring no dearth of daffodils. Afield for palms the girls repair, And sure enough the palms are there, And each will find by hedge or pond Her waving silver-tufted wand.

    If the heats of hate and lust In the house of flesh are strong, Let me mind the house of dust Where my sojourn shall be long. In the nation that is not Nothing stands that stood before; There revenges are forgot, And the hater hates no more;. Lovers lying two and two Ask not whom they sleep beside, And the bridegroom all night through Never turns him to the bride.

    Ah, past the plunge of plummet, In seas I cannot sound, My heart and soul and senses, World without end, are drowned.

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    His folly has not fellow Beneath the blue of day That gives to man or woman His heart and soul away. Here by the labouring highway With empty hands I stroll: Sea-deep, till doomsday morning, Lie lost my heart and soul. One the long nights through must lie Spent in star-defeated sighs, But why should you as well as I Perish? A Grecian lad, as I hear tell, One that many loved in vain, Looked into a forest well And never looked away again.

    There, when the turf in springtime flowers, With downward eye and gazes sad, Stands amid the glancing showers A jonquil, not a Grecian lad.

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    The nettle nods, the wind blows over, The man, he does not move, The lover of the grave, the lover That hanged himself for love. Now in May time to the wicket Out I march with bat and pad: See the son of grief at cricket Trying to be glad. 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 stopped the ears:. Now you will not swell the rout Of lads that wore their honours out, Runners whom renown outran And the name died before the man. 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.

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    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 stopped the ears: Now you will not swell the rout Of lads that wore their honours out, Runners whom renown outran And the name died before the man.

    So set, before its echoes fade, The fleet foot on the sill of shade, And hold to the low lintel up The still-defended challenge-cup. And round that early-laurelled head Will flock to gaze the strengthless dead, And find unwithered on its curls The garland briefer than a girl's. Housman A Shropshire Lad XL Into my heart on air that kills From yon far country blows: What are those blue remembered hills, What spires, what farms are those? That is the land of lost content, I see it shining plain, The happy highways where I went And cannot come again.

    Amy Lowell Born in , Amy Lowell was deeply interested in and influenced by the Imagist movement and she He published several poetry Academy of American Poets Educator Newsletter. Teach This Poem. Follow Us. Find Poets. Read Stanza. Jobs for Poets. Materials for Teachers. The Walt Whitman Award. James Laughlin Award. Ambroggio Prize. The escort will walk her to the runway, while the contestant enters onto the runway, the escort may exit off the stage. At this time, the contestants will be picked at random to re-enter the stage and to answer one specific question.

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