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

I do not choose the right word, I get rid of the wrong one.

That is the land of lost content, I see it shining plain, the happy highways where I went and cannot come again.

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

On occasions, after drinking a pint of beer at luncheon, there would be a flow into my mind with sudden and unaccountable emotion, sometimes a line or two of verse, sometimes a whole stanza, accompanied, not preceded by a vague notion of the poem which they were destined to form a part of.... I say bubble up because, so far as I could make out, the source of the suggestions thus proffered to the brain was the pit of the stomach.

Oh I have been to Ludlow fair, and left my necktie God knows where. And carried half way home, or near, pints and quarts of Ludlow beer.

And silence sounds no worse than cheers After earth has stopped the ears.