Lad Quotes (page 4)
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When the lad for longing sighs, Mute and dull of cheer and pale, If at death's own door he lies, Maiden, you can heal his ail. Lovers' ills are all to buy: The wan look, the hollow tone, The hung head, the sunken eye, You can have them for your own. Buy them, buy them: eve and morn. Lovers' ills are all to sell. Then you can lie down forlorn; But the lover will be well.
A. E. Housman
Song in the Manner of Housman" O woe, woe, People are born and die, We also shall be dead pretty soon Therefore let us act as if we were dead already. The bird sits on the hawthorn tree But he dies also, presently. Some lads get hung, and some get shot. Woeful is this human lot. Woe! woe, etcetera.... London is a woeful place, Shropshire is much pleasanter. Then let us smile a little space Upon fond nature's morbid grace. ...
Ezra Pound
What’s your name, lad?”
“Newton. Newton Pulsifer.”
“LUCIFER? What’s that you say? Are ye of the Spawn of Darkness, a tempting beguiling creature from the pit, wanton limbs steaming from the fleshpots of Hades, in tortured and lubricious thrall to your Stygian and hellish masters?”
“That’s Pulsifer,” explained Newton. “With a P. I don’t know about the other stuff, but we come from Surrey.”
The voice on the phone sounded vaguely disappointed.
Neil Gaiman
She has her own glamour, Willy lad. All poets do, all the bards and artists, all the musicians who truly take the music into their own hearts. They all straddle the border of Faerie, and they see into both worlds. Not dependably into either, perhaps, but that uncertainty keeps them honest and at a distance.
Emma Bull
Suicide in the trenches: I knew a simple soldier boy. Who grinned at life in empty joy, Slept soundly through the lonesome dark, And whistled early with the lark. In winter trenches, cowed and glum. With crumps and lice and lack of rum, He put a bullet through his brain. No one spoke of him again. * * * * *You smug-faced crowds with kindling eye. Who cheer when soldier lads march by, Sneak home and pray you'll never know. The hell where youth and laughter go.
Siegfried Sassoon
