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.

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

The troubles of our proud and angry dust are from eternity, and shall not fail. Bear them we can, and if we can we must. Shoulder the sky, my lad, and drink your ale.

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

I find Cambridge an asylum, in every sense of the word.

And how am I to face the odds Of man's bedevilment and God's? I, a stranger and afraid In a world I never made.

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