Into my heart an air that killsFrom yon far country blows:What are those blue remembered hills,What spires, what farms are those?That is the land of lost content,I see it shining plain,The happy highways where I wentAnd cannot come again.- Poem XL

When I Was One-And-TwentyWhen I was one-and-twenty I heard a wise man say,`Give crowns and pounds and guineas But not your heart away;Give pearls away and rubies But keep your fancy free.'But I was one-and-twenty No use to talk to me. When I was one-and-twenty I heard him say again,`The heart out of the bosom Was never given in vain;'Tis paid with sighs a plenty And sold for endless rue.'And I am two-and-twenty And oh, 'tis true, 'tis true.

With Rue My Heart Is LadenWith rue my heart is ladenFor golden friends I had,For many a rose-lipt maidenAnd many a lightfoot lad.By brooks too broad for leapingThe lightfoot boys are laid;The rose-lipt girls are sleepingIn fields where roses fade.

When the lad for longing sighs,Mute and dull of cheer and pale,If at death's own door he lies,Maiden, you can heal his ail.Lovers' ills are all to buy:The wan look, the hollow tone,The hung head, the sunken eye,You can have them for your own.Buy them, buy them: eve and mornLovers' ills are all to sell.Then you can lie down forlorn;But the lover will be well.

To-day I shall be strong,No more shall yield to wrong,Shall squander life no more;Days lost, I know not how,I shall retrieve them now;Now I shall keep the vowI never kept before.

The year might age, and cloudyThe lessening day might close,But air of other summersBreathed from beyond the snows,And I had hope of those.They came and were and are notAnd come no more anew;And all the years and seasonsThat ever can ensueMust now be worse and few.So here's an end of roamingOn eves when autumn nighs:The ear too fondly listensFor summer's parting sighs,And then the heart replies.

Terence, this is stupid stuff:You eat your victuals fast enough;There can't be much amiss, 'tis clear,To see the rate you drink your beer.

Even when poetry has a meaning, as it usually has, it may be inadvisable to draw it out. Perfect understanding will sometimes almost extinguish pleasure.

I have seldom written poetry unless I was rather out of health.