BLTC Press Titles


available for Kindle at Amazon.com


My Man Jeeves

P. G. Wodehouse


The Art of Worldly Wisdom

Baltasar Gracian


The Picture of Dorian Gray

Oscar Wilde


Leaves of Grass

Walt Whitman


A Shropshire lad

by Alfred Edward Housman

Excerpt:

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 cotne 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.

Ill

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 corne 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 v • 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.

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

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.'


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