Poetry is not the thing said, but the way of saying it.
June suns, you cannot store them To warm the winter’s cold, The lad that hopes for heaven Shall fill his mouth with mould.
Perfect understanding will sometimes almost extinguish pleasure.
Therefore, since the world has still Much good, but much less good than ill, And while the sun and moon endure Luck’s a chance, but trouble’s sure, I’d face it as a wise man would, And train for ill and not for good.
Give me a land of boughs in leaf A land of trees that stand; Where trees are fallen there is grief; I love no leafless land.
Oh I have been to Ludlow fair, and left my necktie God knows where. And carried half way home, or near, pints and quarts of Ludlow beer.
Experience has taught me, when I am shaving of a morning, to keep watch over my thoughts, because, if a line of poetry strays into my memory, my skin bristles so that the razor ceases to act.
The average man, if he meddles with criticism at all, is a conservative critic.
White in the moon the long road lies.
Hope lies to mortals And most believe her, But man’s deceiver Was never mine.
Now hollow fires burn out to black, And lights are guttering low: Square your shoulders, lift your pack And leave your friends and go.
The bells they sound on Bredon, And still the steeples hum. “Come all to church, good people”- Oh, noisy bells, be dumb; I hear you, I will come.
They say my verse is sad: no wonder; Its narrow measure spans Tears of eternity, and sorrow, Not mine. but man’s.
Happy bridegroom, Hesper brings All desired and timely things. All whom morning sends to roam, Hesper loves to lead them home. Home return who him behold, Child to mother, sheep to fold, Bird to nest from wandering wide: Happy bridegroom, seek your bride.
Give crowns and pounds and guineas But not your heart away; Give pearls away and rubies, But keep your fancy free.
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, a stranger and afraid, in a world I never made.
And silence sounds no worse than cheers After earth has stopped the ears.
Shoulder the sky, my lad, and drink your ale.
The troubles of our proud and angry dust are from eternity, and shall not fail. Bear them we can, and if we can we must. Shoulder the sky, my lad, and drink your ale.
I have seldom written poetry unless I was rather out of health.