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

And malt does more than Milton can to justify God's ways to man.

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

Luck's a chance, but trouble's sure.

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.

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

I think that to transfuse emotion - not to transmit thought but to set up in the reader's sense a vibration corresponding to what was felt by the writer - is the peculiar function of poetry.