Now if the harvest is over, And the world cold, Give me the bonus of laughter, As I lose hold.

What the Londoner sees in his mind's eye is that cluster of towers and pinnacles seen from Pentonville Hill and outlined against a foggy sunset, and the great arc of Barlow's train shed gaping to devour incoming engines, and the sudden burst of exuberant Gothic of the hotel seen from gloomy Judd Street.

And now, dear Lord, I cannot wait Because I have a luncheon date.

Imprisoned in a cage of sound, even the trivial seems profound

I don't think I am any good. If I thought I was any good, I wouldn't be.

I ought to warn you that my verse is of no interest to people who can think.

Norfolk would not be Norfolk without a church tower on the horizon or round a corner up a lane. We cannot spare a single Norfolk church. When a church has been pulled down the country seems empty or is like a necklace with a jewel missing.