i met an old friend today and we chatted about Wittgenstein, much of it abstruse and insane talk, i suppose. He told me that Housman, one of my favourite poets, lived in the same part of Trinity as old Ludo and had the privilege of ensuite facilities, i.e. his own loo. Ludwig one day needing the toilet banged imperiously on Housman’s door and no doubt barked “I need to use your toilet!” to which Housman responded, perhaps, with a cool “my toilet isn’t open to the public”.

This only confirms my love of Housman’s poetry. Here’s one splendid piece:

On Wenlock Edge the wood's in trouble;
  His forest fleece the Wrekin heaves;
The gale, it plies the saplings double,
  And thick on Severn snow the leaves.

'Twould blow like this through holt and hanger
  When Uricon the city stood:
'Tis the old wind in the old anger,
  But then it threshed another wood.

Then, 'twas before my time, the Roman
  At yonder heaving hill would stare:
The blood that warms an English yeoman,
  The thoughts that hurt him, they were there.

There, like the wind through woods in riot,
  Through him the gale of life blew high;
The tree of man was never quiet:
  Then 'twas the Roman, now 'tis I.

The gale, it plies the saplings double,
  It blows so hard, 'twill soon be gone:
To-day the Roman and his trouble
  Are ashes under Uricon.
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