Some can gaze and not be sick,
But I could never learn the trick.
There's this to say for blood and breath,
They give a man a taste for death.

Came across this Housman verse as the origin of the title of P D James' book 'A Taste for Death', and would like to know if there is more. It might be a bit of A Shropshire Lad, or something else, but it seems to me it doesn't stand alone very well. However, googling brings me no more

That's all there is there ain't no more:

[66.102.7.104]


Les

Thanks, Les. That explains it - the link you give says 'Additional Poems' was published 3 years after Housman died, so it appears to be what I'd call an 'additional fragment' , possibly something extracted from his papers which he intended to work on later.

And while we're on Housman - what is the explanation for the next-but-one 'additional' poem - 'Oh who is that young sinner with the handcuffs on his wrists?' Since when did hair colour mean jail?

Supposedly in reference to Oscar Wilde. That is, he is being jailed for something he cannot control. Is homosexuality no more controllable than hair colo(u)r? From what I have read, probably nothing Oscar could have done about it, no. Should he not have sued for libel? Well, since truth was a valid defense, that was a BAD mistake! [tinyurl.com]


Oh who is that young sinner with the handcuffs on his wrists?
And what has he been after that they groan and shake their fists?
And wherefore is he wearing such a conscience-stricken air?
Oh they're taking him to prison for the colour of his hair.

'Tis a shame to human nature, such a head of hair as his;
In the good old time 'twas hanging for the colour that it is;
Though hanging isn't bad enough and flaying would be fair
For the nameless and abominable colour of his hair.

Oh a deal of pains he's taken and a pretty price he's paid
To hide his poll or dye it of a mentionable shade;
But they've pulled the beggar's hat off for the world to see and stare,
And they're haling him to justice for the colour of his hair.

Now 'tis oakum for his fingers and the treadmill for his feet
And the quarry-gang on Portland in the cold and in the heat,
And between his spells of labour in the time he has to spare
He can curse the God that made him for the colour of his hair.