Tho' I walks with fifty 'ousemaids outer Chelsea to the Strand, / An' they talks a lot o' lovin', but wot do they understand?

Duke's son - cook's son - son of a hundred kings - / (Fifty thousand horse and foot going to Table Bay!).

[Fifty-nine year old Richard Smith, of Sylvania Township, doesn't need a state poet laureate - or someone like Maya Angelou reading a poem at Bill Clinton's 1993 presidential inauguration - to appreciate poetry. He instantly knew his favorite poem:] If ... If you can keep your head when all about you / Are losing theirs and blaming it on you.

God help us for we knew the worst too young.

I always try to believe the best of everybody -it saves so much trouble.

These are the four that are never content: that have never been filled since the dew began-
Jacala's mouth, and the glut of the kite, and the hands of the ape, and the eyes of Man.