From far, from eve and morning And yon twelve-winded sky, The stuff of life to knit me Blew hither: here am I

Then the world seemed none so bad, and I myself a sterling lad. And down in lovely muck I've lain, happy - till I woke up again.

Oh I have been to Ludlow fair, and left my necktie God knows where. And carried half way home, or near, pints and quarts of Ludlow beer.

I could no more define poetry than a terrier can define a rat.

And malt does more than Milton can To justify the ways of God to man.

Loveliest of trees, the cherry now Is hung with bloom along the bough.