I Find Cambridge An Asylum, In Every

June Suns, You Cannot Store Them To Warm The Winter's Cold, The Lad That Hopes For Heaven Shall Fill His Mouth With Mould.

When The Journey's Over/there'll Be Time Enough To Sleep.

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

The Mortal Sickness Of A Mind Too Unhappy To Be Kind.

And Malt Does More Than Milton Can To Justify God's Ways To Man.