If a line of poetry strays into my memory, my skin bristles so

"If a line of poetry strays into my memory, my skin bristles so that the razor ceases to act." Thus spoke A. E. Housman, the poet-scholar whose verses, though often solemn, burned with an inner fire. In these words he reveals a truth known to sages and warriors alike: that beauty, clothed in the rhythm of poetry, possesses the power to move the body as well as the soul. He testifies that poetry is not mere ornament for the mind, but a force that courses through the veins, that halts the hand, that awakens the spirit.

The ancients knew this power well. The bards of Greece sang their hymns not for idle pleasure, but to stir armies and bind nations together. The rhapsodes who chanted Homer’s epic verses caused the hearts of men to beat as one. Even Plato, though suspicious of poets, confessed that poetry had a power that reason alone could not rival. What Housman describes—the bristling skin, the razor pausing in its work—is that very moment when the soul feels itself touched by eternity, when mortal flesh yields to immortal song.

We see this truth also in history’s halls. Recall the tale of Winston Churchill, who in the darkest hours of the Second World War wielded not swords, but words. His speeches, carved in the cadence of poetry, brought forth tears and courage. When he declared, “We shall fight on the beaches,” it was no mere strategy—it was poetry, and it made the skin of a weary people shiver with resolve. The soldier at his post, the mother in her shelter, the child crouching in fear—all felt their hearts seized by that ancient, bristling power.

For what is poetry, if not the voice of the unseen speaking into the visible world? It is the whisper of memory, the cry of longing, the laughter of joy, captured in rhythm and sound. When it enters the memory, it does not remain there as a shadow, but radiates outward, shaking the body, commanding stillness, halting the razor’s stroke. Such is the mark of words well-spoken—they transform from sound into sensation, from verse into power.

Yet let us remember, not all words can do this. Housman reminds us that it is a true and rare line of poetry—one borne of sincerity and beauty—that pierces the soul so deeply. Empty words, false praise, hollow flattery—they pass through the ear and are forgotten. But words born of suffering, of truth, of love, they lodge in the heart and return unbidden, years later, to halt us in our daily labor and remind us that life is more than toil and dust.

Therefore, O listeners, learn this: keep close to your heart the words that stir your spirit. Seek not endless chatter, but lines that live. When you hear a verse, a song, a phrase that shakes you to your bones, do not dismiss it. Memorize it. Carry it within you as one carries a hidden flame. For in the hours of weariness, it will rise again to give you strength. In the days of despair, it will bristle your skin and remind you that you are still alive, still bound to the great chorus of humankind.

So the lesson is clear: treasure the power of poetry, and do not ignore the stirrings it brings. Read widely, listen deeply, and be attentive to the moments when words touch your very flesh. Do not hasten past them as if they were trifles. Instead, pause. Let the razor fall still. For in that pause, you touch the eternal.

And in your own speech, let your words strive for that power. Do not waste them in empty sound, but shape them with care, as poets and prophets have done before. Perhaps, one day, a single line you speak may stray into the memory of another—and cause their skin to bristle, their spirit to rise, and their life to change.