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

Nature, not content with denying him the ability to think, has endowed him with the ability to write.

White in the moon the long road lies.

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

Do not ever read books about versification: no poet ever learnt it that way. If you are going to be a poet, it will come to you naturally and you will pick up all you need from reading poetry.

There, by the starlit fences The wanderer halts and hears My soul that lingers sighing About the glimmering weirs.

Because I liked you better Than suits a man to say, It irked you, and I promised I'd throw the thought away. To put the world between us We parted stiff and dry: 'Farewell,' said you, 'forget me.' 'Fare well, I will,' said I. If e'er, where clover whitens The dead man's knoll, you pass, And no tall flower to meet you Starts in the trefoiled grass, Halt by the headstone shading The heart you have not stirred, And say the lad that loved you Was one that kept his word.