The bells they sound on Bredon, And still the steeples hum. "Come all to church, good people"- Oh, noisy bells, be dumb; I hear you, I will come.
Oh tarnish late on Wenlock Edge, Gold that I never see.
In all the endless road you tread There's nothing but the night.
But if you ever come to a road where danger; Or guilt or anguish or shame's to share. Be good to the lad who loves you true, And the soul that was born to die for you; And whistle and I'll be there.
Experience has taught me, when I am shaving of a morning, to keep watch over my thoughts, because, if a line of poetry strays into my memory, my skin bristles so that the razor ceases to act. . . . The seat of this sensation is the pit of the stomach.
Far in a western brookland That bred me long ago The poplars stand and tremble By Pools I used to know.
There, by the starlit fences The wanderer halts and hears My soul that lingers sighing About the glimmering weirs.
But men at whiles are sober And think by fits and starts. And if they think, they fasten Their hands upon their hearts
What God abandoned, these defended.
Strapped, noosed, nighing his hour, He stood and counted them and cursed his luck; And then the clock collected in the tower Its strength, and struck.
