Shoulder The Sky, My Lad, And Drink

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.

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.

'tis Spring; Come Out To Ramble The Hilly Brakes Around, For Under Thorn And Bramble About The Hollow Ground The Primroses Are Found. And There's The Windflower Chilly With All The Winds At Play, And There's The Lenten Lily That Has Not Long To Stay And Dies On Easter Day.

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