Sporting with Amaryllis in the sh… (I credit Milton in parenthesis), Among the speculations that she ma… Was this: “When”—these her very words—"when…

If she be not so to me, What care I how fair she be? —Wither. I don’t care if a girl is fair If she doesn’t seem beautiful to m…

How do you tackle your work each d… Are you scared of the job you find… Do you grapple the task that comes… With a confident, easy mind? Do you stand right up to the work…

June 30th, 1919 Notably fond of music, I dote on… clearer tone Than ever was blared by a bugle or… by a saxophone;

Horace: Book III, Ode 9 “Donec eram gratus tibi—” HORACE, PVT.—TH INFANTR… While I was fussing you at home You put the notion in my dome

A soft susurrus in the night, A song whose singer is unseen– ’Twere poetry itself to write ‘A soft susurrus in the night!’ I know, as those mosquitos bite,

Bennie’s kisses left me cold, Eddie’s made me yearn to die, Jimmie’s made me laugh aloud,— But Georgie’s made me cry. Bennie sees me every night,

Lady in the blue kimono, you that… One may see you gazing, gazing gaz… Idly looking out your window from… Are you convalescent, lady? Are y… Ever gazing, as you hang there on…

“Gentle Jane was as good as gold,… To borrow a line from Mr. Gilbert… She hated War with a hate untold, She was a pacifistic filbert. If you said “Perhaps”—she’d leave…

Swift was sweet on Stella; Poe had his Lenore; Burns’ fancy turned to Nancy And a dozen more. Poe was quite a trifler;

Horace: Book IV, Ode 11 “Est mihi nonum superantis annum—” Phyllis, I’ve a jar of wine, (Alban, B.C. 49) Parsley wreathes, and, for your tr…

There was a man in our town who ha… He gave away his millions to the c… And people cried: “The hypocrite!… The ones who really need him are t… When Andrew Croesus built a home…

(An Apartmental Ditty.) Mine be a flat beside the Hill; A vendor’s cry shall soothe my ear A landlord shall present his bill At least a dozen times a year.

I saw him lying cold and dead Who yesterday was whole. “Why,” I inquired, “hath he expir… And why hath fled his soul? ”but yesterday," his comrade said,

Ah, Myrtilla mine, you said– And your tone was earnest, very– You would never deck your head With this vernal millinery. Myrt, to mince no words, you lied;