Shoulder the sky, my lad, and drink your ale.

But if you ever come to a road where danger; Or guilt or anguish or shame's to share. Be good to the lad who loves you true, And the soul that was born to die for you; And whistle and I'll be there.

Good religious poetry... is likely to be most justly appreciated and most discriminately relished by the undevout.

That is the land of lost content, I see it shining plain, the happy highways where I went and cannot come again.

And malt does more than Milton can to justify God's ways to man.

I sought them far and found them, The sure, the straight, the brave, The hearts I lost my own to, The souls I could not save They braced their belts about them, They crossed in ships the sea, They sought and found six feet of ground, And there they died for me.

The house of delusions is cheap to build but drafty to live in.