On Wenlock Edge The Wood's In Trouble;his

Could Man Be Drunk For Ever With Liquor, Love, Or Fights, Lief Should I Rouse At Morning And Lief Lie Down Of Nights. But Men At Whiles Are Sober And Think By Fits And Starts, And If They Think, They Fasten Their Hands Upon Their Hearts.

Even When Poetry Has A Meaning, As It Usually Has, It May Be Inadvisable To Draw It Out. Perfect Understanding Will Sometimes Almost Extinguish Pleasure.

I Find Cambridge An Asylum, In Every Sense Of The Word.

How Clear, How Lovely Bright, How Beautiful To Sight Those Beams Of Morning Play; How Heaven Laughs Out With Glee Where, Like A Bird Set Free, Up From The Eastern Sea Soars The Delightful Day. To-day I Shall Be Strong, No More Shall Yield To Wrong, Shall Squander Life No More; Days Lost, I Know Not How, I Shall Retrieve Them Now; Now I Shall Keep The Vow I Never Kept Before. Ensanguining The Skies How Heavily It Dies Into The West Away; Past Touch And Sight And Sound Not Further To Be Found, How Hopeless Under Ground Falls The Remorseful Day.

Poetry Is Not The Thing Said, But The Way Of Saying It.