There is no reason why the same man should like the same books at eighteen and at forty-eight

This is no book. Whoever touches this touches a man.

I have always thought the suicide should bump off at least one swine before taking off for parts unknown.

Humanity is the rich effluvium, it is the waste and the manure and the soil, and from it grows the tree of the arts.

where the dead walked and the living were made of cardboard.

Song in the Manner of Housman" O woe, woe, People are born and die, We also shall be dead pretty soon Therefore let us act as if we were dead already. The bird sits on the hawthorn tree But he dies also, presently. Some lads get hung, and some get shot. Woeful is this human lot. Woe! woe, etcetera.... London is a woeful place, Shropshire is much pleasanter. Then let us smile a little space Upon fond nature's morbid grace. Oh, Woe, woe, woe, etcetera.

Poetry must be as well written as prose.