From '41 To '51i Was

It's A Warm Wind, The West Wind, Full Of Birds' Cries.

Life Is A Long Headache In A Noisy Street.

All I Ask Is A Tall Ship And A Star To Sail Her By.

Quinquireme Of Nineveh From Distant Ophir, Rowing Home To Haven In Sunny Palestine, With A Cargo Of Ivory, And Apes And Peacocks, Sandalwood, Cedarwood, And Sweet White Wine.

Since The Printing Press Came Into Being, Poetry Has Ceased To Be The Delight Of The Whole Community Of Man; It Has Become The Amusement And Delight Of The Few.