We don't know what we have here. There might be something.

An original something, dear maid, you would wish me to write; but how shall I begin? For I'm sure I have not original in me, Excepting Original Sin

I'll meet the raging of the skies, but not an angry father.

And muse on Nature with a poet's eye.

For there no yew nor cypress spread their glom But roses blossom'd each rustic tomb.

Mother of dead dogs.