Hymns Are The Poetry Of The People.

I Ought To Warn You That My Verse Is Of No Interest To People Who Can Think.

Now If The Harvest Is Over, And The World Cold, Give Me The Bonus Of Laughter, As I Lose Hold.

Childhood Is Measured Out By Sounds And Smells And Sights, Before The Dark Hour Of Reason Grows.

Oh! Full Surrey Twilight! Importunate Band! Oh! Strongly Adorable Tennis-girl's Hand!

Lord, Reserve For Me A Crown, And Do Not Let My Shares Go Down.