A.E.Housman’No one, not even Cambridge was to blame(Blame if you like the human situation):Heart-injured in North London, he becameThe Latin Scholar of his generation.Deliberately he chose the dry-as-dust,Kept tears like dirty postcards in a drawer;Food was his public love, his private lustSomething to do with violence and the poor.In savage foot-notes on unjust editionsHe timidly attacked the life he led,And put the money of his feelings onThe uncritical relations of the dead,Where only geographical divisionsParted the coarse hanged soldier from the don.



