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

They say my verse is sad: no wonder; Its narrow measure spans Tears of eternity, and sorrow, Not mine. but man's.

Tomorrow, more's the pity, Away we both must hie, To air the ditty and to earth I.

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 mortal sickness of a mind too unhappy to be kind.

With rue my heart is laden For golden friends I had, For many a rose-lipped maiden And many a lightfoot lad.

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