You made it for me and it's mine.

Nobody ever made a real poem for me before.

I want it." "Oh, nonsense, you don't want it." "Indeed I do.

I must have it." "Will you promise not to show it to anybody ?" "'Course not! I'll show it to everybody!" "Then you can't have it.

I'm sensitive, I admit, but I can't bear to have the children of my brain bruited to the world----" "I haven't a notion what bruited means, but I promise you I won't do that.