When you 've got a little sonnet in the house.
Just a dainty little poem, true and fine,
That is full of love and life in every line,
Earnest, delicate, and sweet,
Altogether so complete
That I wonder what's the use of writing mine.
DISTINCTION
"I am but clay," the sinner plead,
Who fed each vain desire.
"Not only clay," another said,