To Be A Textual Critic Requires Aptitude

On Occasions, After Drinking A Pint Of Beer At Luncheon, There Would Be A Flow Into My Mind With Sudden And Unaccountable Emotion, Sometimes A Line Or Two Of Verse, Sometimes A Whole Stanza, Accompanied, Not Preceded By A Vague Notion Of The Poem Which They Were Destined To Form A Part Of.... I Say Bubble Up Because, So Far As I Could Make Out, The Source Of The Suggestions Thus Proffered To The Brain Was The Pit Of The Stomach.

Into My Hear An Air That Kills Through Yon Far Country Blows What Are Those Blue Remembered Hills What Spires,what Farms Are Those? That Is The Land Of Lost Content I Can See It Shining Plain The Happy Highways Where I Went And Cannot Come Again.

They Say My Verse Is Sad: No Wonder; Its Narrow Measure Spans Tears Of Eternity, And Sorrow, Not Mine. But Man's.

Oh Who Is That Young Sinner With The Handcuffs On His Wrist? And What Has He Been After That They Groan And Shake Their Fists? And Wherefore Is He Wearing Such A Conscience-stricken Air? Oh They're Taking Him To Prison For The Colour Of His Hair.

They Carry Back Bright To The Coiner The Mintage Of Man,the Lads That Will Die In Their Glory And Never Be Old.