Poetry is not the thing said, but the way of saying it.

Into my hear an air that kills through yon far country blows what are those blue remembered hills what spires,what farms are those? that is the land of lost content I can see it shining plain the happy highways where I went and cannot come again.

Ale, man, ale's the stuff to drink for fellows whom it hurts to think.

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.

His folly has not fellow Beneath the blue of day That gives to man or woman His heart and soul away.

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

They put arsenic in his meat And stared aghast to watch him eat; They poured strychnine in his cup And shook to see him drink it up.