I Find Cambridge An Asylum, In Every

On Wenlock Edge The Wood's In Trouble;his Forest Fleece The Wrekin Heaves;the Wind It Plies The Saplings Double, And Thick On Severn Snow The Leaves.

I Could No More Define Poetry Than A Terrier Can Define A Rat.

Ten Thousand Times I've Done My Best And All's To Do Again.

His Folly Has Not Fellow Beneath The Blue Of Day That Gives To Man Or Woman His Heart And Soul Away.

Here Dead Lie We Because We Did Not Choose To Live And Shame The Land From Which We Sprung. Life, To Be Sure, Is Nothing Much To Lose; But Young Men Think It Is, And We Were Young.