Oh, To Be In England Now That

It Was Roses, Roses, All The Way, With Myrtle Mixed In My Path Like Mad.

Autumn Wins You Best By This Its Mute Appeal To Sympathy For Its Decay.

All Poetry Is Putting The Infinite Within The Finite.

And I Have Written Three Books On The Soul, Proving Absurd All Written Hitherto, And Putting Us To Ignorance Again.

Smiling The Boy Fell Dead.