Write poetry for its own sake — not in a spirit of emulation, and not…

It was a summer evening, Old Kaspar's work was done, And he before his cottage door Was sitting in the sun, And by him sported on the green His little grandchild Wilhelmine.

"You are old, Father William." the young man cried, "The few locks which are left you are grey; You are hale, Father William—a hearty old man: Now tell me the reason, I pray."

"In my days of youth, I remembered my God, And he hath not forgotten my age."

Cold is thy heart and as frozen as Charity!

If you would be pungent, be brief ; for it is with words as with sunbeams—the more they are condensed, the deeper they burn.

He came to ask what he had found, That was so large, and smooth, and round.