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An Anthology of Poetry about Being Young and Growing Up
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A. E. Housman

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 tomorrow, 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 And safe from trustless chaps. My love is true and all for you. "Perhaps, young man, perhaps." Oh, look in my eyes then, can you doubt? --Why, 'tis a mile from town. How green the grass is all about! We might as well sit down. --Ah, life, what is it but a flower? Why must true lovers sigh? Be kind, have pity, my own, my pretty,-- "Good-bye, young man, good-bye."

Lovliest of Trees, the Cherry Now

A. E. Housman

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.


A. E. Housman

In summertime on Bredon The bells they sound so clear; Round both the shires they ring them In steeples far and near, A happy noise to hear. Here of a Sunday morning My love and I would lie, And see the coloured counties, And hear the larks so high About us in the sky. The bells would ring to call her In valleys miles away; 'Come to church, good people; Good people come and pray.' But here my love would stay. And I would turn and and answer Among the springing thyme, 'Oh, peal upon our wedding, And we will hear the chime, And come to church on time.' But when the snows at Christmas On Bredon top were strown, My love rose up so early And stole out unbeknown And went to church alone. They tolled the one bell only, Groom there was none to see, The mourners followed after, And so to church went she; And would not wait for me. The bells they sound on Bredon, And still the steeples hum, 'Come all to church, good people'-- Oh,noisy bells be dumb; I hear you, I will come. * Pronounced Breedon

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