I’ve ben thinkin’ back, of late, S’prisin’!—And I’m here to state I’m suspicious it’s a sign Of _age_, maybe, or decline Of my faculties,—and yit

I want to sing something—but this… I try and I try, but the rhymes a… As though they were damp, and the… Limp and unlovable. Words will not say what I yearn t…

I am looking for Love. Has he pas… With eyes as blue as the skies of… And a face as fair as the summer d… You answer back, but I wander on,… For you say: ‘Oh, yes; but his ey…

Tomps 'ud allus haf to say Somepin’ ‘bout ’his mother’s way.'… _He_ lived hard-like—never jined Any church of any kind.— 'It was Mother’s way,' says he,

Like a drift of faded blossoms Caught in a slanting rain, His fingers glimpsed down the stri… In a tremulous refrain: Patter and tinkle, and drip and dr…

When chirping crickets fainter cry… And pale stars blossom in the sky, And twilight’s gloom has dimmed th… And blurred the butterfly: When locust-blossoms fleck the wal…

John McKeen, in his rusty dress, His loosened collar, and swarthy t… His face unshaven, and none the le… His hearty laugh and his wholesome… And the wealth of a workman’s vote…

A quite convincing axiom Is, 'Life is like a play’; For, turning back its pages some Few dog-eared years away, I find where I

‘How did you rest, last night?’— I’ve heard my gran’pap say Them words a thousand times—that’s… Jes them words thataway! As punctchul-like as morning dast

The ripest peach is highest on the… And so her love, beyond the reach… Is dearest in my sight. Sweet bre… Her heart down to me where I wors… She looms aloft where every eye ma…

To hear her sing—to hear her sing— It is to hear the birds of Spring In dewy groves on blooming sprays Pour out their blithest roundelays… It is to hear the robin trill

_Piped to the Spirit of John Kea… Would that my lips might pour out… A fitting melody—an air sublime,— A song sun-washed and draped in dr… The floss and velvet of luxurious…

'Write me a rhyme of the present t… And the poet took his pen And wrote such lines as the miser… Hide in the hearts of men. He grew enthused, as the poets use…

Old October’s purt’ nigh gone, And the frosts is comin’ on Little heavier every day— Like our hearts is thataway! Leaves is changin’ overhead

The ticking—ticking—ticking of the… That vexed me so last night—! ‘Fo… Such drowsy watch,’ I moaned, ‘he… But only nods above the world to m… Its restless occupant, then rudely…