I, a stranger and afraid, in a world I never made.

The house of delusions is cheap to build but drafty to live in.

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.

Life, to be sure, is nothing much to lose, But young men think it is, and we were young.

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

But men at whiles are sober And think by fits and starts. And if they think, they fasten Their hands upon their hearts

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.