This Time Of Year A Twelvemonth Past

Alfred Edward Housman

This time of year a twelvemonth past,
When Fred and I would meet,
We needs must jangle, till at last
We fought and I was beat.

So then the summer fields about,
Till rainy days began,
Rose Harland on her Sundays out
Walked with the better man.

The better man she walks with still,
Though now ’tis not with Fred:
A lad that lives and has his will
Is worth a dozen dead.

Fred keeps the house all kinds of weather,
And clay’s the house he keeps;
When Rose and I walk out together
Stock-still lies Fred and sleeps.

Next 10 Poems

• Alfred Edward Housman : Tis Time, I Think, By Wenlock Town
• Alfred Edward Housman : To An Athlete Dying Young
• Alfred Edward Housman : Twice A Week The Winter Thorough
• Alfred Edward Housman : Wake Not For The World-heard Thunder
• Alfred Edward Housman : Westward On The High-hilled Plains
• Alfred Edward Housman : When I Came Last To Ludlow
• Alfred Edward Housman : When I Was One-and-twenty
• Alfred Edward Housman : When I Watch The Living Meet
• Alfred Edward Housman : When Smoke Stood Up From Ludlow
• Alfred Edward Housman : When The Lad For Longing Sighs

Previous 10 Poems

• Alfred Edward Housman : Think No More, Lad; Laugh, Be Jolly
• Alfred Edward Housman : Think No More, Lad
• Alfred Edward Housman : There Pass The Careless People
• Alfred Edward Housman : The Winds Out Of The West Land Blow
• Alfred Edward Housman : The Welsh Marches
• Alfred Edward Housman : The True Lover
• Alfred Edward Housman : The Street Sounds To The Soldiers' Tread
• Alfred Edward Housman : The Stinging Nettle
• Alfred Edward Housman : The Recruit
• Alfred Edward Housman : The Rainy Pleiads Wester