I do not choose the right word, I get rid of the wrong one.

The fairies break their dances And leave the printed lawn.

And malt does more than Milton can to justify God's ways to man.

You smile upon your friend to-day, To-day his ills are over; You hearken to the lover's say, And happy is the lover. 'Tis late to hearken, late to smile, But better late than never: I shall have lived a little while Before I die for ever.

These, in the day when heaven was falling, The hour when earth's foundations fled, Followed their mercenary calling And took their wages and are dead. The British regulars who made the retreat from Mons, beginning August 24, 1914.

The average man, if he meddles with criticism at all, is a conservative critic.

There, by the starlit fences The wanderer halts and hears My soul that lingers sighing About the glimmering weirs.