The quotations are arranged by author name. Current counts: Authors: 8,146. Quotations: 38,970 Select the first character of the author's last name that you want to look at: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z

---

A. E. Housman

b: Bronsgrove, Worcestershire, England, Mar 26, 1859

d: Cambridge, England, Apr 30, 1936

Alfred Edward Housman, usually known as A. E. Housman, was an English classical scholar and poet, best known to the general public for his cycle of poems A Shropshire Lad. Lyrical and almost epigrammatic in form, the poems were mostly written before 1900. Their wistful evocation of doomed youth in the English countryside, in spare language and distinctive imagery, appealed strongly to late Victorian and Edwardian taste, and to many early twentieth century English composers (beginning with Arthur Somervell) both before and after the First World War. Through its song-setting the poetry became closely associated with that era, and with Shropshire itself. Housman was counted one of the foremost classicists of his age, and has been ranked as one of the greatest scholars of all time. He established his reputation publishing as a private scholar and, on the strength and quality of his work, was appointed Professor of Latin at University College London and later, at Cambridge. His editions of Juvenal, Manilius and Lucan are still considered authoritative.

---

Ale, man, ale's the stuff to drink
For fellows whom it hurts to think.
Look into the pewter pot
To see the world as the world is not.

And malt does more than Milton can
To justify the ways of God to man.

And wherefore is he wearing such a conscience-stricken air?
Oh they're taking him to prison for the colour of his hair.

Any girl can be glamorous. All you have to do is stand still and look stupid.

Ay, look: high heaven and earth ail from the prime foundation;
All thoughts to rive the heart are here, and all are vain:
Horror and scorn and hate and fear and indignation --
Oh why did I awake? When shall I sleep again?

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.

For fellows whom it hurts to think.

Here dead we lie, 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.

I base most of my fashion taste on what doesn't itch.

I could no more define poetry than a terrier can define a rat.

In every American there is an air of incorrigible innocence, which seems to conceal a diabolical cunning.

Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
Is hung with bloom along the bough.

Malt does more than Milton can to justify God's ways to man.

Now, with one balm for many fevers found,
Whole of an ancient evil, I sleep sound. -

Oh many a peer of England brews
Livelier liquor than the Muse,
And malt does more than Milton can
To justify God's ways to man.

Oh they're taking him to prison for the color of his hair.

Oh, why did I awake? When shall I sleep again?

Poetry is not the thing said, but the way of saying it.

That is the land of lost content, I see it shining plain, the happy highways where I went and cannot come again.

The average man, if he meddles with criticism at all, is a conservative critic.

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.

Three minutes thought would suffice to find this out; but thought is irksome and three minutes is a long time.

To think that two and two are four
And neither five nor three
The heart of man has long been sore
And long 'tis like to be.

We for a certainty are not the first have sat in taverns while the tempest hurled their hopeful plans to emptiness, and cursed whatever brute and blackguard made the world.

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.

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.