When the journey's over/There'll be time enough to sleep.
Give me a land of boughs in leaf A land of trees that stand; Where trees are fallen there is grief; I love no leafless land.
The house of delusions is cheap to build but drafty to live in.
June suns, you cannot store them To warm the winter's cold, The lad that hopes for heaven Shall fill his mouth with mould.
Hope lies to mortals And most believe her, But man's deceiver Was never mine.
Poetry is not the thing said, but the way of saying it.