Shoulder The Sky, My Lad, And Drink

Good Religious Poetry... Is Likely To Be Most Justly Appreciated And Most Discriminately Relished By The Undevout.

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

Now, Of My Threescore Years And Ten, Twenty Will Not Come Again.

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.

I Find Cambridge An Asylum, In Every Sense Of The Word.