I find Cambridge an asylum, in every sense of the word. - Alfred Edward Housman

Could man be drunk for ever With liquor, love, or fights, Lief should I rouse at mornings And lief lie down of nights. But men at whiles are sober And think by fits and starts, And if they think, they fasten Their hands upon their hearts.

We for a certainty are not the first Have sat in taverns while the tempest hurled Their hopeful plans to emptiness, and cursed Whatever brute and blackguard made the world.

They carry back bright to the coiner the mintage of man, The lads that will die in their glory and never be old.