Spring will not wait the loiterer's time Who keeps so long away; So others wear the broom and climb The hedgerows heaped with may. And like the cloudy shadows Across the country blown We two fare on for ever, But not we two alone. Wrote Shropshire Lad in 1896. I thought this poem was dark but I was very confused about the football reference. Now hollow fires burn out to black, And lights are guttering low: Square your shoulders, lift your pack, And leave your friends and go. Tell me of runes to grave That hold the bursting wave, Or bastions to design For longer date than mine. The toil of all that be Helps not the primal fault; It rains into the sea, And still the sea is salt.
After go forthing the University College London. Vaughan Williams leaves out the football stanza, while Gurney and Butterworth leave it in. One, two, three, four, to market-place and people It tossed them down. In midnights of November, When Dead Man's Fair is nigh, And danger in the valley, And anger in the sky, Around the huddling homesteads The leafless timber roars, And the dead call the dying And finger at the doors. Eyes the shady night has shut Cannot see the record cut, And silence sounds no worse than cheers After earth has stopped the ears: Now you will not swell the rout Of lads that wore their honours out, Runners whom renown outran And the name died before the man. There, like the wind through woods in riot, Through him the gale of life blew high; The tree of man was never quiet: Then 'twas the Roman, now 'tis I. I also got the impression that maybe his friend was maybe killing him to take everything he owns which is why the first speaker seems so skeptical.
Analysis; a dead man talks to his friend from the grave. Easily the gentle air Wafts the turning season on; Things to comfort them are there, Though 'tis true the best are gone. One can easily see that the lines said by the dead man are inside the quotation marks, and his friend says the rest of the other lines. He hears: no more remembered In fields where I was known, Here I lie down in London And turn to rest alone. But still they chose to die just because they thought it was worthy to die for their nation. Crown and tiar and mitre Were starry with gold and gem; Christmas never was whiter Than fear on the face of them.
To skies that knit their heartstrings right, To fields that bred them brave, The saviours come not home tonight: Themselves they could not save. The thought of sacrifice makes the life meaningless which is all worthy of being lived and enjoyed. Now dreary dawns the eastern light, And fall of eve is drear, And cold the poor man lies at night, And so goes out the year. The central purpose of the poem is that when a person dies he is dead and cannot ever join the living. Now, of my three score years and ten, Twenty will not come again, And take from seventy springs a score, It only leaves me fifty more. Even though that the dead adult male wants his sweetie to be shouting for him. Since all is done that's due and right Let's home; and now, my lad, good-night, For I must turn away.
Light the Indies, laggard sun: Happy bridegroom, day is done, And the star from Œta's steep Calls to bed but not to sleep. How long, how long, till spade and hearse Puts to sleep my mother's curse? And I with the brave shall be sleeping At ease on my mattress of loam, When back from their taking and keeping The squadron is riding at home. E Housman published his 2nd and concluding book of verse forms called Last Poems. There was a king reigned in the East: There, when kings will sit to feast, They get their fill before they think With poisoned meat and poisoned drink. There is an irony in the second paragraph of the poem where the poet questions if this sacrifice was actually needed.
In the poem a dead man is a young fellow and speaking to his friend, and asking about things they used to do it together. What found he, that the heavens stand fast? I feel that the occasion of this poem is the what happens to the human life after death. Ask me no more, for fear I should reply; Others have held their tongues, and so can I; Hundreds have died, and told no tale before: Ask me no more, for fear I should reply -- How one was true and one was clean of stain And one was braver than the heavens are high, And one was fond of me: and all are slain. Little is the luck I've had, And oh, 'tis comfort small To think that many another lad Has had no luck at all. My hand, though now my knuckles bleed, I never soiled with such a deed.
To me, he can be referred as a medium that is a friend because he is communicating with the dead. If notability cannot be established, the article is likely to be , , or. If the latter, it implies that the one who conversing with the speaker is his closest companion and not just a mere acquaintance. His second question is about a football game that took place along a river. It is considered a matter of great pride and honour to die in the service of the nation.
The brisk fond lackey to fetch and carry, The true, sick-hearted slave, Expect him not in the just city And free land of the grave. Now -- for a breath I tarry Nor yet disperse apart -- Take my hand quick and tell me, What have you in your heart. The thoughts of others Were light and fleeting, Of lovers' meeting Or luck or fame. Then you can lie down forlorn; But the lover will be well. But now you may stare as you like and there's nothing to scan; And brushing your elbow unguessed-at and not to be told They carry back bright to the coiner the mintage of man, The lads that will die in their glory and never be old. Oh may I squire you round the meads And pick you posies gay? For these of old the trader Unpearled the Indian seas, The nations of the nadir Were diamondless for these; A people prone and haggard Beheld their lightnings hurled: All round, like Sinai, staggered The sceptre-shaken world. Then he tells him that nil has changed since he was alive.
The sloe was lost in flower, The April elm was dim; That was the lover's hour, The hour for lies and him. Housman Albert Edward Housman was an outstanding poet and his country's greatest Latinist. They came and were and are not And come no more anew; And all the years and seasons That ever can ensue Must now be worse and few. When Israel out of Egypt came Safe in the sea they trod; By day in cloud, by night in flame, Went on before them God. Housman published A Shropshire Lad.