They Say My Verse Is Sad: No

'tis Spring; Come Out To Ramble The Hilly Brakes Around, For Under Thorn And Bramble About The Hollow Ground The Primroses Are Found. And There's The Windflower Chilly With All The Winds At Play, And There's The Lenten Lily That Has Not Long To Stay And Dies On Easter Day.

Who Made The World I Cannot Tell; 'tis Made, And Here Am I In Hell. My Hand, Though Now My Knuckles Bleed, I Never Soiled With Such A Deed.

Oh, 'tis Jesting, Dancing, Drinking Spins The Heavy World Around.

On Wenlock Edge The Wood's In Trouble;his Forest Fleece The Wrekin Heaves;the Wind It Plies The Saplings Double, And Thick On Severn Snow The Leaves.

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.