The Fairies Break Their Dances And Leave

Strapped, Noosed, Nighing His Hour, He Stood And Counted Them And Cursed His Luck; And Then The Clock Collected In The Tower Its Strength, And Struck.

I Do Not Choose The Right Word, I Get Rid Of The Wrong One.

Why, If 'tis Dancing You Would Be, There's Brisker Pipes Than Poetry. Say, For What Were Hop-yards Meant, Or Why Was Burton Built On Trent? Oh Many A Peer Of England Brews Livelier Liquor Than The Muse, And Malt Does More Than Milton Can To Justify God's Ways To Man. Ale, Man, Ale's The Stuff To Drink For Fellows Whom It Hurts To Think: Look Into The Pewter Pot To See The World As The World's Not.

That Is The Land Of Lost Content, I See It Shining Plain, The Happy Highways Where I Went And Cannot Come Again.

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