Life, to be sure, is nothing much to lose, But young men think it is, and we were young.

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

Ale, man, ale's the stuff to drink for fellows whom it hurts to think.

Tell me not here, it needs not saying, What tune the enchantress plays In aftermaths of soft September Or under blanching mays, For she and I were long acquainted And I knew all her ways.

The mortal sickness of a mind too unhappy to be kind.

Earth and high heaven are fixed of old and founded strong.

White in the moon the long road lies.