“Good religious poetry… is likely to be most justly appreciated and most discriminately relished by the undevout.”

Luck’s a chance, but trouble’s sure.

I find Cambridge an asylum, in every sense of the word.

The thoughts of others Were light and fleeting, Of lovers’ meeting Or luck or fame. Mine were of trouble, And mine were steady; So I was ready When trouble came.

But men at whiles are sober And think by fits and starts. And if they think, they fasten Their hands upon their hearts.

Lovers lying two and two Ask not whom they sleep beside, And the bridegroom all night through Never turns him to the bride.

Tell me not here, it needs not saying, What tune the enchantress plays In aftermaths of soft September Or under blanching mays, For she and I were long acquainted And I knew all her ways.

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.

The mortal sickness of a mind too unhappy to be kind.

A moment’s thought would have shown him. But a moment is a long time, and thought is a painful process.

Three minutes thought would suffice to find this out; but thought is irksome and three minutes is a long time.

Give crowns and pounds and guineas But not your heart away; Give pearls away and rubies, But keep your fancy free.

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.

They say my verse is sad: no wonder; Its narrow measure spans Tears of eternity, and sorrow, Not mine. but man’s.

Loveliest of trees, the cherry now Is hung with bloom along the bough.

The rainy Pleiads wester Orion plunges prone, And midnight strikes and hastens, And I lie down alone.

The troubles of our proud and angry dust are from eternity, and shall not fail. Bear them we can, and if we can we must. Shoulder the sky, my lad, and drink your ale.