A Shropshire Lad by A.E. Housman
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

Sad stuff and somewhat repetitive in theme, but Housman is a great poet, and there are some real gems here.

I love an anecdote from Lenten Lands, the autobiography of Douglas Gresham. Gresham's mother, Joy Davidman Gresham, was the American poet who became Lewis's wife.

One day, the 14-year-old Douglas walked into the living room, and there were his mother and Lewis, both with tears running down their cheeks. Wondering what was wrong, Douglas asked, "What's the matter?"

Lewis replied, "Nothing's wrong, Doug. We're reading the poems of A. E. Housman and they always do this to us."

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This poem conjures memories of my childhood years spent in a farmhouse out in the country near Poplar Grove, Illinois. I remember many days spent exploring the outdoors, building forts with the hay bales in the barn, reading in solitude, spending hours just swinging on the tire swing in the front yard . . .  Ah, life.

     Into my heart an air that kills
          From yon far country blows:
     What are those blue remembered hills,
          What spires, what farms are those?

     That is the land of lost content,
          I see it shining plain,
     The happy highways where I went
          And cannot come again.

A. E. Housman, A Shropshire Lad

   Then I saw the morning sky:
   Heigho, the tale was all a lie;
   The world, it was the old world yet,
   I was I, my things were wet,
   And nothing now remained to do
   But begin the game anew.

A.E. Housman, "Terence, This Is Stupid Stuff"

In his book Lenten Lands, C. S. Lewis's stepson, Douglas Gresham, recalls the following incident which took place when he was 14 years old.

"Once, I [came into] the common room to find them both sitting still, tears rolling down their face. Alarmed, I cried out, 'What's wrong? What's the matter?' 'Nothing's wrong, Doug,' said Jack, smiling through his tears. 'We're reading the poems of A. E. Housman and they always do this to us.' I ... left them, not understanding the strange way in which the recognition of great beauty can bring tears. I am older now, but I still have not read the poems of A. E. Housman."