Lovers lying two and two Ask not whom they sleep beside, And the bridegroom all night through Never turns him to the bride. - Alfred Edward Housman

They say my verse is sad: no wonder. Its narrow measure spans Rue for eternity, and sorrow Not mine, but man's. This is for all ill-treated fellows Unborn and unbegot, For them to read when they're in trouble And I am not.

Be still, my soul, be still; the arms you bear are brittle, Earth and high heaven are fixt of old and founded strong.

The chestnut casts his flambeaux, and the flowers Stream from the hawthorn on the wind away, The doors clap to, the pane is blind with showers. Pass me the can, lad; there’s an end of May.