The House Of Delusions Is Cheap To

Poems Very Seldom Consist Of Poetry And Nothing Else; And Pleasure Can Be Derived Also From Their Other Ingredients. I Am Convinced That Most Readers, When They Think They Are Admiring Poetry, Are Deceived By Inability To Analyse Their Sensations, And That They Are Really Admiring, Not The Poetry Of The Passage Before Them, But Something Else In It, Which They Like Better Than Poetry.

Loveliest Of Trees, The Cherry Now Is Hung With Bloom Along The Bough, And Stands About The Woodland Ride Wearing White For Eastertide. Now, Of My Threescore Years And Ten, Twenty Will Not Come Again, And Take From Seventy Springs A Score, It Only Leaves Me Fifty More. And Since To Look At Things In Bloom Fifty Springs Are Little Room, About The Woodlands I Will Go To See The Cherry Hung With Snow.

Ten Thousand Times I've Done My Best And All's To Do Again.

Housman Is One Of My Heroes And Always Has Been. He Was A Detestable And Miserable Man. Arrogant, Unspeakably Lonely, Cruel, And So On, But And Absolutely Marvellous Minor Poet, I Think, And A Great Scholar.

He Would Not Stay For Me, And Who Can Wonder? He Would Not Stay For Me To Stand And Gaze. I Shook His Hand, And Tore My Heart In Sunder, And Went With Half My Life About My Ways.