It Is Nearly 50 Years Since I

If You Lived In London, Where The Whole System Is One Of False Good-fellowship, And You May Know A Man For Twenty Years Without Finding Out That He Hates You Like Poison, You Would Soon Have Your Eyes Opened. There We Do Unkind Things In A Kind Way: We Say Bitter Things In A Sweet Voice: We Always Give Our Friends Chloroform When We Tear Them To Pieces.

Your Wits Can't Thicken In That Soft Moist Air, On Those White Springy Roads, In Those Misty Rushes And Brown Bogs, On Those Hillsides Of Granite Rocks And Magenta Heather. You've No Such Colours In The Sky, No Such Lure In The Distances, No Such Sadness In The Evenings. Oh The Dreaming! The Dreaming! The Torturing, Heart-scalding, Never Satisfying Dreaming, Dreaming, Dreaming, Dreaming!

That Is What All Poets Do: They Talk To Themselves Out Loud; And The World Overhears Them. But It's Horribly Lonely Not To Hear Someone Else Talk Sometimes.

Beauty Is All Very Well At First Sight; But Who Ever Looks At It When It Has Been In The House Three Days?

From A Very Early Age, I've Had To Interrupt My Education To Go To School.