#Americans #Jews
(March 4, 1913) Thine aid, O Muse, I consciously… I crave thy succour, ask for thine… That men may cry: “Some little od… O Muse, grant me the strength to…
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…
LINES PROVOKED BY HE… No carmine radical in Art, I worship at the shrine of Form; Yet open are my mind and heart To each departure from the norm.
Writers of baseball, attention! When you’re again on the job– When, in your rage for invention, You with the language play hob– Most of your dope we will pardon,
When you came you were like red wi… And the taste of you burnt my mout… Now you are like morning bread— Smooth and pleasant, I hardly taste you at all, for I…
I used to think that this environ– Ment talk was all a lot of guff; Place mattered not with Keats and… Stuff. If I have thoughts that need disc…
“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…
Many a jest that refuses to die Bobs up again as the seasons appea… Deathless it hits us again in the… Changeless and dull as the calenda… Musty and mouldy and yellow and se…
WHEN Bill was a lad he was terri… He worried his parents a lot; He’d lie and he’d swear and pull l… His boyhood was naught but a blot. At play and in school he would fra…
(With the usual.) In winter I get up at night, And dress by an electric light. In summer, autumn, ay, and spring, I have to do the self-same thing.
How narrow his vision, how cribbed… How prejudiced all of his views! How hard is the shell of his bigot… How difficult he to excuse! His face should be slapped and his…
[“There are so many things I want… Said Abelard to Heloïse: “Your tresses blowing in the breez… Enchant my soul; your cheek allure… I never knew such lips as yours.”
When first I doffed my olive drab… I thought, delightfully though mut… “Henceforth I shall have pleasure… Solutely.” Dull with the drudgery of war,
“Oh bard,” I said, “your verse is… The shackles that encumber me, The fetters that are my obsession, Are never gyves to your expression… ”The fear of falsities in rhyme,
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,