Luck's A Chance, But Trouble's Sure.

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.

He Would Not Stay For Me, And Who Can Wonder? He Would Not Stay For Me To Stand And Gaze. I Shook His Hand, And Tore My Heart In Sunder, And Went With Half My Life About My Ways.

We Now To Peace And Darkness And Earth And Thee Restore Thy Creature That Thou Madest And Wilt Cast Forth No More.

I Could No More Define Poetry Than A Terrier Can Define A Rat.

On Wenlock Edge The Wood's In Trouble;his Forest Fleece The Wrekin Heaves;the Wind It Plies The Saplings Double, And Thick On Severn Snow The Leaves.