Malt does more than Milton can to justify Gods ways to man.
Experience has taught me when I am shaving of a morning to keep watch over my thoughts because if a line of poetry strays into my memory my skin bristles so that the razor ceases to act.
Who made the world I cannot tell Tis made and here am I in hell. My hand though now my knuckles bleed I never soiled with such a deed.
And malt does more than Milton can to justify Gods ways to man.
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.
The troubles of our proud and angry dust are from eternity and shall not fail. Bear them we can and if we can we must. Shoulder the sky my lad and drink your ale.
I could no more define poetry than a terrier can define a rat.
The house of delusions is cheap to build but drafty to live in.
The laws of God the laws of man he may keep that will and can not I: let God and man decree laws for themselves and not for me.
Shoulder the sky my lad and drink your ale.
I find Cambridge an asylum in every sense of the word.
The average man if he meddles with criticism at all is a conservative critic.
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.
If a line of poetry strays into my memory my skin bristles so that the razor ceases to act.
In every American there is an air of incorrigible innocence which seems to conceal a diabolical cunning.
That is the land of lost content I see it shining plain the happy highways where I went and cannot come again.
Ale man ales the stuff to drink for fellows whom it hurts to think.
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.
Nature not content with denying him the ability to think has endowed him with the ability to write.
Stay, if you list, O passer by the way; Yet night approaches; better not to stay. I never sigh, nor flush, nor knit the brow, Nor grieve to think how ill God made me, now. Here, with one balm for many fevers found, Whole of an ancient evil, I sleep sound. —A. E. Housman