Telling you of land and sea Of Heaven blithe and free, How I know there to be Such and such Castles built in Spain, Telling also of Cockaigne Of that glorious kingdom, Cand Of the Delectable Land, The Land of Crooked Stiles, The Fortunate Isles, Of the more than three score miles That to Babylon lead, A pretty city indeed Built on a foursquare plan, Of the land of the Gold Man Whose eager horses whinney In their cribs of gold, Of the lands of Whipperginny Of the land where none grow old. Especially I could tell Of the Town of Hell, A huddle of dirty woes And houses in endless rows Straggling across all space; Hell has no market place, Nor point where four ways meet, Nor principal street, Nor barracks, nor Town Hall, Nor shops at all, Nor rest for weary feet, Nor theatre, square or park, Nor lights after dark, Nor churches nor inns, Nor convenience for sins, Hell nowhere begins, Hell nowhere ends, But over the world extends Rambling, dreamy, limitless, hated well: The suburbs of itself, I say, is Hell. But back to the sweets Of Spenser and Keats And the calm joy that greets The chosen of Apollo! Here let me mope, quirk, holloa With a gesture that meets The needs that I follow In my own fierce way, Let me be grave-gay Or merry-sad, Who rhyming here have had Marvellous hope of achievement And deeds of ample scope, Then deceiving and bereavement Of this same hope. APPENDIX:--THE DANGERS OF DEFINITION The following letter I reprint from Tract No. 6 issued by the Society for Pure English, but put it as an appendix because it explains my attitude to the careful use of language by prose writers as well as by poets. It is intended to be read in conjunction with my section on _Diction_. _To the Editor of the S. P. E. tracts._ SIR,