His folly has not fellow Beneath the blue of day That gives to man or woman His heart and soul away.
I could no more define poetry than a terrier can define a rat.
Stone, steel, dominions pass, Faith too, no wonder; So leave alone the grass That I am under.
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.
That is the land of lost content, I see it shining plain, the happy highways where I went and cannot come again.