The Wanderlust Has Got Me... By The

Our Breath Is Brief, And Being So Let's Make Our Heaven Here Below, And Lavish Kindness As We Go.

Now A Promise Made Is A Debt Unpaid, And The Trail Has Its Own Stern Code.

I Like To Think That When I Fall, A Rain-drop In Death's Shoreless Sea, This Shelf Of Books Along The Wall, Beside My Bed, Will Mourn For Me.

Write Verse, Not Poetry. The Public Wants Verse. If You Have A Talent For Poetry, Then Don't By Any Means Mother It, But Try Your Hand At Verse.

His Life, Though None Too Long, Was Never Dull: Of Woman, Wine And Song Bill Had His Full.