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

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

Could man be drunk for ever With liquor, love, or fights, Lief should I rouse at morning And lief lie down of nights. But men at whiles are sober And think by fits and starts, And if they think, they fasten Their hands upon their hearts.

Some men are more interesting than their books but my book is more interesting than its man.

June suns, you cannot store them To warm the winter's cold, The lad that hopes for heaven Shall fill his mouth with mould.

Earth and high heaven are fixed of old and founded strong.

White in the moon the long road lies.