Oh! it is not just the men who fac… Not the fighters at the Front alo… Who will bring the longed-for clos… Could not carry on that fray witho… Who are working at war’s problems…

Adieu, Romauld! But thou canst no… Although no more I haunt thy drea… Thy hungering heart forever must r… And starve for those lost moments… Naught shall avail thy priestly ri…

All through the Castle of High-br… Where the chief employment was do-… Spread consternation and wild desp… The queen was wringing her hands a… The maids of honor were sad and so…

What a terrible night! Does the N… The Night, with her black veil do… Like an ordained nun, know what li… That awful, motionless, snow-white… The winds seem crazed, and, wildly…

The roses all were pink and red, Before the Bumble Bee, A lover bold, with cloak of gold, Came singing merrily Along the sunlit ways that led

When night hung low and dew fell d… There fell athwart the shadows The gleaming watchfires of the cam… Like glow-worms on the meadows. The sentinel his measured beat

A curious vision on mine eyes unfu… In the deep night. I saw, or see… Two Centuries meet, and sit down… Across the great round table of th… One with suggested sorrows in his…

They say the world is round, and y… I often think it square, So many little hurts we get From corners here and there. But one great truth in life I’ve…

Up from the South come the birds… Frightened away by the presence of… Back to the vale comes the verdure… Back to the forest the leaves that… Over the hillside the carpet of sp…

Here in my office I sit and write Hour on hour, and day on day, With no one to speak to from morn… Though I have a neighbour just ov… Across the alley that yawns betwee…

Because of the fullness of what I… All that I have seems poor and va… If I had not been happy, I were n… Tho’ my salt is savorless, why com… From the ripe perfection of what w…

The God of the day has vanished, The light from the hills has fled, And the hand of an unseen artist Is painting the west all red. All threaded with gold and crimson…

Oh! the earth is full of sinning And of trouble and of woe, But the devil makes an inning Every time we say it’s so. And the way to set him scowling,

The pessimist locust, last to leaf… Though all the world is glad, stil…

Hers was a lonely, shadowed lot; Or so the unperceiving thought, Who looked no deeper than her face… Devoid of chiselled lines of grace… No farther than her humble grate,