The Mortal Sickness Of A Mind Too

Oh I Have Been To Ludlow Fair, And Left My Necktie God Knows Where. And Carried Half Way Home, Or Near, Pints And Quarts Of Ludlow Beer.

Therefore, Since The World Has Still Much Good, But Much Less Good Than Ill, And While The Sun And Moon Endure Luck's A Chance, But Trouble's Sure, I'd Face It As A Wise Man Would, And Train For Ill And Not For Good.

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.

I Think That To Transfuse Emotion - Not To Transmit Thought But To Set Up In The Reader's Sense A Vibration Corresponding To What Was Felt By The Writer - Is The Peculiar Function Of Poetry.

Why, If 'tis Dancing You Would Be, There's Brisker Pipes Than Poetry. Say, For What Were Hop-yards Meant, Or Why Was Burton Built On Trent? Oh Many A Peer Of England Brews Livelier Liquor Than The Muse, And Malt Does More Than Milton Can To Justify God's Ways To Man. Ale, Man, Ale's The Stuff To Drink For Fellows Whom It Hurts To Think: Look Into The Pewter Pot To See The World As The World's Not.