On Wenlock Edge The Wood's In Trouble;his

Some Men Are More Interesting Than Their Books But My Book Is More Interesting Than Its Man.

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

Therefore, Since The World Has Still Much Good, But Much Less Good Than Ill

Shoulder The Sky, My Lad, And Drink Your Ale.

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.