Many A Poem Is Marred By A

I Am More Afraid Of Deserving Criticism Than Of Receiving It.

Every Dew-drop And Rain-drop Had A Whole Heaven Within It.

The Atmosphere Breathes Rest And Comfort, And The Many Chambers Seem Full Of Welcomes.

The Tide Rises, The Tide Falls, The Twilight Darkens, The Curlew Calls; The Little Waves, With Their Soft, White Hands, Efface The Footprints In The Sands, And The Tide Rises, The Tide Falls.

And When She Was Good She Was Very Very Good. But When She Was Bad She Was Horrid.