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

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

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.

Give crowns and pounds and guineas But not your heart away; Give pearls away and rubies, But keep your fancy free.

Lovers lying two and two Ask not whom they sleep beside, And the bridegroom all night through Never turns him to the bride.

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

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