Stepping forward from the last such post, I mentioned Dorothy L Sayers. I suspect it is in the climax of one of her novels (Strong Poison) that I first heard and remembered a line from Housman's Shropshire Lad. This time, it did make it into the BBC Radio version - but I shall try to avoid sounding too much like Ian Carmichael.
I've picked out two entries from A Shropshire Lad: XXXIV and LXII. XXXIV is shorter and, not just in subject matter, perhaps the most Kiplingesque. LXII's combination of classical reference, melancholy, bitter humour and rustic boozing is particularly memorable.
Enjoy.
Comfy!
ReplyDeleteMost definitely!
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