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.

The troubles of our proud and angry dust are from eternity, and shall not fail. Bear them we can, and if we can we must. Shoulder the sky, my lad, and drink your ale.

And malt does more than Milton can to justify God's ways to man.

And how am I to face the odds Of man's bedevilment and God's? I, a stranger and afraid In a world I never made.

Now hollow fires burn out to black, And lights are guttering low: Square your shoulders, lift your pack And leave your friends and go.

Stone, steel, dominions pass, Faith too, no wonder; So leave alone the grass That I am under.

In every American there is an air of incorrigible innocence, which seems to conceal a diabolical cunning.