The Living Dead

~ Honouring our poetic ancestors ~

Last Poems

XVIII

By A E Housman 1859-1936

The rain, it streams on stone and hillock,  

The boot clings to the clay.

Since all is done that's due and right

Let's home; and now, my lad, good-night,  

For I must turn away.  

Good-night, my lad, for nought's eternal;  

No league of ours, for sure.

To-morrow I shall miss you less,

And ache of heart and heaviness  

Are things that time should cure.  

Over the hill the highway marches  

And what's beyond is wide:

Oh soon enough will pine to nought

Remembrance and the faithful thought  

That sits the grave beside.  

The skies, they are not always raining  

Nor grey the twelvemonth through;

And I shall meet good days and mirth,

And range the lovely lands of earth  

With friends no worse than you.  

But oh, my man, the house is fallen  

That none can build again;

My man, how full of joy and woe

Your mother bore you years ago   

Tonight to lie in the rain.

The link on the poet's name, above, refers you to a previous posting of a poem by Housman in this series, with all the background information I found about him that time.

I like to give you the experience of a great variety of poets, but many are worth repeating � and in this case, I�ve had this poem �on the brain � a bit lately. (Do you find that happens to you too, with favourite poems, as with songs?)

I like its down-to-earth acceptance of both death and grief. The poem is at once emotional and philosophical. The dead man may have been close friend or family member � clearly, someone loved and valued. Housman manages to make this elegy both personal and universal.

I like the restrained, almost commonplace language and conversational tone, which encompass the �let�s get on with it� mood of the first verse, the aching cry at the end, and the journey of reflection in between.

In all his poems Housman had �the art that conceals art�: straightforward words in a simple ballad style with obvious but unobtrusive rhymes, adding up to huge emotional power.

Yes, this poem has a sad subject, yet I find it also both satisfying and cathartic.

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