Ay, 'twas here, on this spot, In that summer of yore, Atalanta did not Vote my presence a bore, Nor reply to my tenderest talk "She had heard all that nonsense before." ...
"My First, but don't suppose," he said, "I'm setting you a riddle, Is, if your Victim be in bed, Don't touch the curtains at his head, But take them in the middle, ...
One winter night, at half-past nine, Cold, tired, and cross, and muddy, I had come home, too late to dine, And supper, with cigars and wine, Was waiting in the study. ...
"Oh, when I was a little Ghost, A merry time had we! Each seated on his favourite post, We chumped and chawed the buttered toast They gave us for our tea."
"Don't they consult the 'Victims,' though?" I said. "They should, by rights, Give them a chance, because, you know, The tastes of people differ so, Especially in Sprites." ...
As one who strives a hill to climb, Who never climbed before: Who finds it, in a little time, Grow every moment less sublime, And votes the thing a bore:
"What's this?" I pondered. "Have I slept? Or can I have been drinking?" But soon a gentler feeling crept Upon me, and I sat and wept An hour or so, like winking.
Why is it that Poetry has never yet been subjected to that process of Dilution which has proved so advantageous to her sister-art Music? The Diluter gives us first a few notes of some well-known Air, then a dozen bars of his ow...
The sun was shining on the sea, Shining with all his might: He did his very best to make The billows smooth and bright, And this was odd, because it was The middle of the night. ...
I have a horse, a ryghte good horse, Ne doe Y envye those Who scoure ye playne yn headye course Tyll soddayne on theyre nose They lyghte wyth unexpected force Yt ys, a horse of clothes. ...