I Find Cambridge An Asylum, In Every

Experience Has Taught Me, When I Am Shaving Of A Morning, To Keep Watch Over My Thoughts, Because, If A Line Of Poetry Strays Into My Memory, My Skin Bristles So That The Razor Ceases To Act.

White In The Moon The Long Road Lies, The Moon Stands Blank Above; White In The Moon The Long Road Lies That Leads Me From My Love. Still Hangs The Hedge Without A Gust, Still, Still The Shadows Stay: My Feet Upon The Moonlit Dust Pursue The Ceaseless Way. The World Is Round, So Travellers Tell, And Straight Through Reach The Track, Trudge On, Trudge On, 'twill All Be Well, The Way Will Guide One Back. But Ere The Circle Homeward Hies Far, Far Must It Remove: White In The Moon The Long Road Lies That Leads Me From My Love.

These, In The Day When Heaven Was Falling, The Hour When Earth's Foundations Fled, Followed Their Mercenary Calling And Took Their Wages And Are Dead. The British Regulars Who Made The Retreat From Mons, Beginning August 24, 1914.

Tomorrow, More's The Pity, Away We Both Must Hie, To Air The Ditty And To Earth I.

Poems Very Seldom Consist Of Poetry And Nothing Else; And Pleasure Can Be Derived Also From Their Other Ingredients. I Am Convinced That Most Readers, When They Think They Are Admiring Poetry, Are Deceived By Inability To Analyse Their Sensations, And That They Are Really Admiring, Not The Poetry Of The Passage Before Them, But Something Else In It, Which They Like Better Than Poetry.