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.

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

I, a stranger and afraid, in a world I never made.

A moment's thought would have shown him. But a moment is a long time, and thought is a painful process.

Now hollow fires burn out to black, And lights are guttering low: Square your shoulders, lift your pack And leave your friends and go.

The average man, if he meddles with criticism at all, is a conservative critic.