Way down in the Boom Belt lived… A person named Petrie, he lived t… But Mr. Roselle he resided away Sing tooral iooral iooral iay. Once Mrs. Roselle in her room was…

Let slaves and subjects with unvar… Before their sovereign execute sal… The freeman scorns one idol to ado… Tom, Dick and Harry and himself a…

Grief for an absent lover, husband… Is barely felt before it comes to… A score of early consolations serv… To modify its mouth’s dejected cur… But woes of creditors when debtors…

A Countess (so they tell the tale… Who dwelt of old in Arno’s vale, Where ladies, even of high degree, Know more of love than of A.B.C, Came once with a prodigious bribe

I drew aside the Future’s veil And saw upon his bier The poet Whitman. Loud the wail And damp the falling tear. 'He’s dead-he is no more!' one cri…

Your various talents, Goldenson,… Respect: you are a poet and can dr… It is a pity that your gifted hand Should ever have been raised again… If you had drawn no pistol, but a…

I saw the devil-he was working fre… A customs-house he builded by the… ‘Why do you this?’ The devil rais… 'Churches and courts I’ve built e…

I step from the door with a shiver (This fog is uncommonly cold) And ask myself: What did I give h… The maiden a trifle gone-old, With the head of gray hair that wa…

Cried Age to Youth: 'Abate your… The distance hither’s brief indeed… But Youth pressed on without dela… The shout had reached but half the…

‘Let there be Liberty!’ God said,… The red skies all were luminous.… Struck first Columbia’s kindling… One hundred and eleven years ago!' So sang a patriot whom once I saw

Cheeta Raibama Chunder Sen, The wisest and the best of men, Betook him to the place where sat With folded feet upon a mat Of precious stones beneath a palm,

Says Gerald Massey: ‘When I writ… Of souls of the departed guides my… How strange that poems cumbering o… Penned by immortal parts, have non…

SHE: I’m told that men have sometimes g… Too confidential, and Have said to one another what They-well, you understand.

As in a dream, strange epitaphs I… Inscribed on yet unquarried stone, Where wither flowers yet unstrown The Campo Santo of the time to be…

O statesmen, what would you be at, With torches, flags and bands? You make me first throw up my hat, And then my hands.