About the woodlands I will go / To see the cherry hung with snow.

Now, of my threescore years and ten, / Twenty will not come again.

Clay lies still, but blood's a rover; / Breath's a ware that will not keep. / Up, lad; when the journey's over / There'll be time enough for sleep.

They carry back bright to the coiner the mintage of man, / The lads that will die in their glory and never be old.

The laws of God, the laws of man he may keep that will and can; not I: let God and man decree laws for themselves and not for me.

Even when poetry has a meaning, as it usually has, it may be inadvisable to draw it out... Perfect understanding will sometimes almost extinguish pleasure.