Earth And High Heaven Are Fixed Of

There, By The Starlit Fences The Wanderer Halts And Hears My Soul That Lingers Sighing About The Glimmering Weirs.

They Put Arsenic In His Meat And Stared Aghast To Watch Him Eat; They Poured Strychnine In His Cup And Shook To See Him Drink It Up.

Here Dead Lie We Because We Did Not Choose To Live And Shame The Land From Which We Sprung. Life, To Be Sure, Is Nothing Much To Lose; But Young Men Think It Is, And We Were Young.

Loveliest Of Trees, The Cherry Now Is Hung With Bloom Along The Bough, And Stands About The Woodland Ride Wearing White For Eastertide. Now, Of My Threescore Years And Ten, Twenty Will Not Come Again, And Take From Seventy Springs A Score, It Only Leaves Me Fifty More. And Since To Look At Things In Bloom Fifty Springs Are Little Room, About The Woodlands I Will Go To See The Cherry Hung With Snow.

I Do Not Choose The Right Word, I Get Rid Of The Wrong One.