I Could No More Define Poetry Than

I Sought Them Far And Found Them, The Sure, The Straight, The Brave, The Hearts I Lost My Own To, The Souls I Could Not Save They Braced Their Belts About Them, They Crossed In Ships The Sea, They Sought And Found Six Feet Of Ground, And There They Died For Me.

Clay Lies Still, But Blood's A Rover; Breath's Aware That Will Not Keep. Up, Lad: When The Journey's Over Then There'll Be Time Enough To Sleep.

I, A Stranger And Afraid, In A World I Never Made.

Ale, Man, Ale's The Stuff To Drink For Fellows Whom It Hurts To Think.

Tell Me Not Here, It Needs Not Saying, What Tune The Enchantress Plays In Aftermaths Of Soft September Or Under Blanching Mays, For She And I Were Long Acquainted And I Knew All Her Ways.