Shoulder The Sky, My Lad, And Drink

Loveliest Of Trees, The Cherry Now Is Hung With Bloom Along The Bough.

Earth And High Heaven Are Fixed Of Old And Founded Strong.

There, By The Starlit Fences The Wanderer Halts And Hears My Soul That Lingers Sighing About The Glimmering Weirs.

I Am Not A Pessimist But A Pejorist (as George Eliot Said She Was Not An Optimist But A Meliorist); And That Philosophy Is Founded On My Observation Of The World, Not On Anything So Trivial And Irrelevant As Personal History.

The Fairies Break Their Dances And Leave The Printed Lawn.