Experience has taught me, when I am shaving of a morning, to keep watch over my thoughts, because, if a line of poetry strays into my memory, my skin bristles so that the razor ceases to act.

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

Therefore, since the world has still Much good, but much less good than ill, And while the sun and moon endure Luck's a chance, but trouble's sure, I'd face it as a wise man would, And train for ill and not for good.

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

The fairies break their dances And leave the printed lawn.

We now to peace and darkness And earth and thee restore Thy creature that thou madest And wilt cast forth no more.

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.