Tis Not On Youth's Smooth

The Simple Wordsworth . . . / Who, Both By Precept And Example, Shows / That Prose Is Verse, And Verse Is Merely Prose.

Never To Talk To Ones Self Is A Form Of Hypocrisy

A Mighty Mass Of Brick, And Smoke, And Shipping, Dirty And Dusty, But As Wide As Eye Could Reach, With Here And There A Sail Just Skipping In Sight, Then Lost Amidst The Forestry Of Masts; A Wilderness Of Steeples Peeping On Tiptoe Through Their Sea-coal Canopy; A Huge, Dun Cupola, Like A Fools-cap Crown On A Fool's Head - And There Is London Town.

The Place Is Very Well And Quiet And The Children Only Scream In A Low Voice.

A Little Still She Strove, And Much Repented, And Whispering “i Will Ne'er Consent”—consented.