“Do you like Gigi D’Alessio, Sergeantess?” he asked me as he handed them over. “Sergeant,” I corrected him. If he thought he’d get a hysterical reaction, he was mistaken: I smiled. I wanted to assert myself mildly.

Only an artist of the unintensity and detachment of Longfellow could so dedicate himself, under American conditions, to the world of poetry.

Hees forc't to trot with fardle at his backe, / From houſe to houſe, demaunding if they lacke / A poore yong man that's willing to take paine, / And mickle labour, though for little gaine.

Coordinate term: lawner