Sin We Have Explain'd Away; Unluckily, The

She Danced A Jig, She Sung A Song That Took My Heart Away.

The Mother's Kiss Is The Sweetest Thing Ever.

Not Like Homer Would I Write, Not Like Dante If I Might, Not Like Shakespeare At His Best, Not Like Goethe Or The Rest, Like Myself, However Small, Like Myself, Or Not At All.

Soul's Castle Fell At One Blast Of Temptation, But Many A Worm Had Pierced The Foundation.

Does Not The Latent Feeling That Much Of Their Striving Is To No Purpose Tend To Infuse Large Quantities Of Sham Into Men's Work?