From his shoulder Hiawatha Took the camera of rosewood, Made of sliding, folding rosewood; Neatly put it all together. In its case it lay compactly, Folded into nearly nothing; ...
"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.
"How shall I be a poet? How shall I write in rhyme? You told me once 'the very wish Partook of the sublime.' The tell me how! Don't put me off With your 'another time'!" ...
If, and the thing is wildly possible, the charge of writing nonsense were ever brought against the author of this brief but instructive poem, it would be based, I feel convinced, on the line ...
All in the golden afternoon Full leisurely we glide; For both our oars, with little skill, By little arms are plied, While little hands make vain pretense Our wanderings to guide. ...