Clay lies still but blood's a rover; Breath's a ware that will not keep Up, lad; when the journey's over There'll be time enough to sleep.
I could no more define poetry than a terrier can define a rat.
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.
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.
If a line of poetry strays into my memory, my skin bristles so that the razor ceases to act.
And malt does more than Milton can to justify God's ways to man.