A Shropshire Lad E-Book

A.E. Housman

• Herausgeber: JH
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

The charms of the poems in A Shropshire Lad, published in 1896, continue to resonate today. Housman's first collection and his signature work, the poems here mix the styles of traditional English ballads and classical verse, and evoke the idyllic English countryside, explore the nature of friendship, bravery, and the passing of youth, among other themes.

Leseprobe

.

From Clee to heaven the beacon burns,

The shires have seen it plain,

From north and south the sign returns

And beacons burn again.

Look left, look right, the hills are bright,

The dales are light between,

Because 'tis fifty years to-night

That God has saved the Queen.

Now, when the flame they watch not towers

About the soil they trod,

Lads, we'll remember friends of ours

Who shared the work with God.

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.

It dawns in Asia, tombstones show

And Shropshire names are read;

And the Nile spills his overflow

Beside the Severn's dead.

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.

"God Save the Queen" we living sing,

From height to height 'tis heard;

And with the rest your voices ring,

Lads of the Fifty-third.

Oh, God will save her, fear you not:

Be you the men you've been,

Get you the sons your fathers got,

And God will Save the Queen.

II

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.

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.

III

THE RECRUIT

Leave your home behind, lad,

And reach your friends your hand,

And go, and luck go with you

While Ludlow tower shall stand.

Oh, come you home of Sunday

When Ludlow streets are still

And Ludlow bells are calling

To farm and lane and mill,

Or come you home of Monday

When Ludlow market hums

And Ludlow chimes are playing

"The conquering hero comes,"

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.

IV

REVEILLE

Wake: the silver dusk returning

Up the beach of darkness brims,

And the ship of sunrise burning

Strands upon the eastern rims.

Wake: the vaulted shadow shatters,

Trampled to the floor it spanned,

And the tent of night in tatters

Straws the sky-pavilioned land.

Up, lad, up, 'tis late for lying:

Hear the drums of morning play;

Hark, the empty highways crying

"Who'll beyond the hills away?"

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.

Clay lies still, but blood's a rover;

Breath's a ware that will not keep

Up, lad: when the journey's over

There'll be time enough to sleep.

V

Oh see how thick the goldcup flowers

Are lying in field and lane,

With dandelions to tell the hours

That never are told again.

Oh may I squire you round the meads

And pick you posies gay?

-'Twill do no harm to take my arm.

"You may, young man, you may."

Ah, spring was sent for lass and lad,

'Tis now the blood runs gold,

And man and maid had best be glad

Before the world is old.

What flowers to-day may flower to-morrow,

But never as good as new.

-Suppose I wound my arm right round-

" 'Tis true, young man, 'tis true."

Some lads there are, 'tis shame to say,

That only court to thieve,

And once they bear the bloom away

'Tis little enough they leave.

Then keep your heart for men like me