A. E. Housman
A. E. Housman
A. E. Housman
A. E. Housman
A. E. Housman
A. E. Housman
A. E. Housman
A. E. Housman
A. E. Housman
A. E. Housman
A. E. Housman
A. E. Housman
A. E. Housman
A. E. Housman
A. E. Housman
A. E. Housman
A. E. Housman
A. E. Housman
A. E. Housman
A. E. Housman
A. E. Housman
A. E. Housman
A. E. Housman
A. E. Housman
A. E. Housman
A. E. Housman
A. E. Housman
A. E. Housman
A. E. Housman
A. E. Housman
A. E. Housman
A. E. Housman
A. E. Housman
A. E. Housman
A. E. Housman
A. E. Housman
A. E. Housman
A. E. Housman
A. E. Housman
A. E. Housman
A. E. Housman
A. E. Housman
A. E. Housman
A. E. Housman
A. E. Housman
A. E. Housman
A. E. Housman
A. E. Housman
A. E. Housman
A. E. Housman
A. E. Housman
A. E. Housman
A. E. Housman
A. E. Housman
A. E. Housman
A. E. Housman
A. E. Housman
A. E. Housman
A. E. Housman
A. E. Housman
A. E. Housman
A. E. Housman
A. E. Housman
The fortieth poem in Housman’s seminal collection A Shropshire Lad, “Into my heart an air that kills” imagines the past as a “land of lost content”. It’s about nostalgia, and the missed opportunities that we look back on when we grow older.
Lewis‘ Hathaway once used it as a pick-up line.
XL
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.