The house of delusions is cheap to build but drafty to live in.
Poetry is not the thing said, but the way of saying it.
Ale, man, ale's the stuff to drink for fellows whom it hurts to think.
Now hollow fires burn out to black, And lights are guttering low: Square your shoulders, lift your pack And leave your friends and go.
I do not choose the right word, I get rid of the wrong one.
The laws of God, the laws of man, He may keep that will and can; Not I: let God and man decree Laws for themselves and not for me.