MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.
A TEMPEST in a teapot stands, one knows,
For noisy nothing in the realms of prose.
But what is that to the prodigious pother
When Minor Poets pulverise each other?
"Birds in their little nests agree,"—all right!
Bards in their little books fall out and fight.
The birds of which the pious rhymster sings
Sure were not "singing birds"—those angry things!