There are only three things in the world, one is to read poetry, another is to write poetry, and the best of all is to live poetry.

For Cambridge people rarely smile, Being urban, squat, and packed with guile.

If I should die, think only this of me: that there's some corner of a foreign field that is for ever England.

Breathless, we flung us on a windy hill, Laughed in the sun, and kissed the lovely grass.

Proud, then, clear-eyed and laughing, go to greet Death as a friend!

But somewhere, beyond Space and Time, is wetter water, slimier slime! And there (they trust) there swimmeth one who swam ere rivers were begun, immense of fishy form and mind, squamous omnipotent, and kind.

The worst of slaves is he whom passion rules.