#1912 #AmericanWriters #RhymesOfARollingStone
Men of the High North, the wild s… Islands of opal float on silver se… Swift splendors kindle, barbaric,… Pale ports of amber, golden argosi… Ringed all around us the proud pea…
I love the cheery bustle Of children round the house, The tidy maids a—hustle, The chatter of my spouse; The laughter and the singing,
The sheep are in the silver wood, The cows are in the broom; The goats are in the wild mountain And won’t be home by noon. My mother sang that olden tune
A Belgian Priest—Soldier Speaks; GURR! You cochon! Stand and fig… Show your mettle! Snarl and bite! Spawn of an accursed race, Turn and meet me face to face!
This crowded life of God’s good g… No man has relished more than I; I’ve been so goldarned busy living I’ve never had the time to die. So busy fishing, hunting, roving,
Here lyeth one Who loved the sun; Who lived with zest, Whose work was done, Reward, dear Lord,
My Louis loved me oh so well And spiered me for his wife; He would have haled me from the he… That was my bawdy life: The mother of his bairns to be,
I opened wide the bath—room door, And all at once switched on the li… When moving swift across the floor I saw a streak of ebon bright: Then quick, with slipper in my han…
For failure I was well equipped And should have come to grief, By atavism grimly gripped, A fool beyond belief. But lo! the Lord was good to me,
The sky is like an envelope, One of those blue official things; And, sealing it, to mock our hope, The moon, a silver wafer, clings. What shall we find when death give…
Ho! we were strong, we were swift,… Youth was a challenge, and Life w… All that was best in us gladly we… Sprang from the rally, and leapt f… Smiling is Love in a foam of Spri…
He was an old prospector with a vi… He asked me for a grubstake, and t… He hinted of a hidden trove, and w… To question his veracity, this is… “I do not seek the copper streak,…
There’s A race of men that don’t… A race that can’t stay still; So they break the hearts of kith a… And they roam the world at will. They range the field and they rove…
The Spanish women don’t wear slac… Because their hips are too enormou… 'Tis true each bulbous bosom lacks No inspiration that should warm us… But how our ardor seems to freeze
I loved to toy with tuneful rhyme, My fancies into verse to weave; For as I walked my words would ch… So bell—like I could scarce belie… My rhymes rippled like a brook,