The Average Man, If He Meddles With

Stone, Steel, Dominions Pass, Faith Too, No Wonder; So Leave Alone The Grass That I Am Under.

I Do Not Choose The Right Word, I Get Rid Of The Wrong One.

'tis Spring; Come Out To Ramble The Hilly Brakes Around, For Under Thorn And Bramble About The Hollow Ground The Primroses Are Found. And There's The Windflower Chilly With All The Winds At Play, And There's The Lenten Lily That Has Not Long To Stay And Dies On Easter Day.

Now Hollow Fires Burn Out To Black, And Lights Are Guttering Low: Square Your Shoulders, Lift Your Pack And Leave Your Friends And Go.

Great Literature Should Do Some Good To The Reader: Must Quicken His Perception Though Dull, And Sharpen His Discrimination Though Blunt, And Mellow The Rawness Of His Personal Opinions.