[Be still, my soul, be still; the arms you bear are brittle]

1859 –

1936

Be still, my soul, be still; the arms you bear are brittle,
   Earth and high heaven are fixt of old and founded strong.
Think rather,—call to thought, if now you grieve a little,
   The days when we had rest, O soul, for they were long.

Men loved unkindness then, but lightless in the quarry
   I slept and saw not; tears fell down, I did not mourn;
Sweat ran and blood sprang out and I was never sorry:
   Then it was well with me, in days ere I was born.

Now, and I muse for why and never find the reason,
   I pace the earth, and drink the air, and feel the sun.
Be still, be still, my soul; it is but for a season:
   Let us endure an hour and see injustice done.

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?

This poem is in the public domain.

Loveliest of Trees

Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
Is hung with bloom along the bough,
And stands about the woodland ride
Wearing white for Eastertide.

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.

A. E. Housman

1896

A Shropshire Lad, XXX

Others, I am not the first,
Have willed more mischief than they durst:
If in the breathless night I too
Shiver now, ’tis nothing new.

More than I, if truth were told,
Have stood and sweated hot and cold,
And through their reins in ice and fire
Fear contended with desire.

A. E. Housman

1896

A Shropshire Lad, XII

When I watch the living meet,
    And the moving pageant file
Warm and breathing through the street
    Where I lodge a little while,

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.

A. E. Housman

1922

Poems

[Be still, my soul, be still; the arms you bear are brittle]

More by this poet

Loveliest of Trees

A Shropshire Lad, XXX

A Shropshire Lad, XII

Poems

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[Be still, my soul, be still; the arms you bear are brittle]

More by this poet

Loveliest of Trees

A Shropshire Lad, XXX

A Shropshire Lad, XII

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