She lay like a saint on her copper… Like an angel asleep she lay, In the stare of the ghoulish folks… Past the Dead and sneak away. Then came old Jules of the sightl…

My brother Tim has children ten, While I have none. Maybe that’s why he’s toiling when To ease I’ve won. But though I would some of his br…

Dames should be doomed to dungeons Who masticate raw onions. She was the cuddly kind of Miss A man can love to death; But when I sought to steal a kiss

If you had the choice of two women… (Though of course the idea is quit… And the first from her heels to he… Was charming in every sense of the… And yet in the past (I grieve to…

The lone man gazed and gazed upon… His sweat, his blood, the wage of… But now how sweet, how doubly swee… All gay and gleamy to the campfire… The evening sky was sinister and c…

Birds have no consciousness of doo… Yon thrush that serenades me daily From scented snow of hawthorn bloo… Would not trill out his glee so ga… Could he foretell his songful brea…

It’s mighty nice at shut of day With weariness to hit the hey, To close your eyes, tired through… And just forget that “you are you.… It’s mighty sweet to wake again

Dogs have a sense beyond our ken — At least my little Trixie had: Tail—wagging when I laughed, and… I sighed, eyes luminously sad. And if I planned to go away,

I’m one of these haphazard chaps Who sit in cafes drinking; A most improper taste, perhaps, Yet pleasant, to my thinking. For, oh, I hate discord and strif…

Of all the boys with whom I fough… In Africa and Sicily, Bill was the bravest of the lot In our dare—devil Company. That lad would rather die than yie…

You speak to me, but does your spe… With truest truth your thought con… I listen to your words and each Is what I wait to hear you say. The pattern that your lips reveal,

In the dark and damp of the alley… Lay the Christmas tree that hadn’… By a shopman dourly thrown outside… With the ruck and rubble of Chris… Trodden deep in the muck and mire,

I to a crumpled cabin came upon a hillside high, And with me was a withered dame As weariful as I. “It used to be our home,” she said…

Of Poetry I’ve been accused, But much more often I have not; Oh, I have been so much amused By those who’ve put me on the spot… And measured me by rules above