Perhaps A Maiden's Bashfulness Is More A

We Come From The Earth, We Return To The Earth, And In Between We Garden.

No Verse Which Is Unmusical Or Obscure Can Be Regarded As Poetry Whatever Other Qualities It May Possess.

Life Seems Like A Haunted Wood, Where We Tremble And Crouch And Cry.

Have You Never, When Waves Were Breaking, Watched Children At Sport On The Beach, With Their Little Feet Tempting The Foam-fringe, Till With Stronger And Further Reach Than They Dreamed Of, A Billow Comes Bursting, How They Turn And Scamper And Screech!

He Is Dead Already Who Doth Not Feel Life Is Worth Living Still.