Hide Me From Day's Garish Eye.

Among The Writers Of All Ages, Some Deserve Fame, And Have It; Others Neither Have Nor Deserve It; Some Have It, Not Deserving It; Others, Though Deserving It, Yet Totally Miss It, Or Have It Not Equal To Their Deserts.

A Boundless Continent, Dark, Waste, And Wild, Under The Frown Of Night Starless Expos'd.

Or If Virtue Feeble Were, Heav'n Itself Would Stoop To Her.

The Leaf Was Darkish, And Had Prickles On It, But In Another Country, As He Said, Bore A Bright Golden Flow'r, But Not In This Soil; Unknown, And Like Esteem'd, And The Dull Swain Treads On It Daily With His Clouted Shoon.

Quips And Cranks And Wanton Wiles, Nods And Becks And Wreathèd Smiles.