I wonder if successful men Are always happy? And do they sing with gusto when Springtime is sappy? Although I am of snow—white hair
Time, the Jester, jeers at you; Your life’s a fleeting breath; Your birthday’s flimsy I.O.U. To that old devil, Death. And though to glory you attain,
His portrait hung upon the wall. Oh how at us he used to stare. Each Sunday when I made my call!… And when one day it wasn’t there, Quite quick I seemed to understan…
The daughter of the village Maire Is very fresh and very fair, A dazzling eyeful; She throws upon me such a spell That though my love I dare not te…
One of the Down and Out—that’s me… Stare and shrink—say! you wouldn’t… Look at my face, it’s crimped and… Don’t seem the sort of man, do I,… Slouching along in smelly rags, a…
There were twin artists A. and B. Who painted pictures two, And hung them in my galley For everyone to view; The one exhibited by A.
Smith, great writer of stories, dr… Fused in his brain-pan, else a bla… Gave him the magical genius touch;… Flat in your face a soul-thought—… Twiddle your heart-strings in his…
They brought the mighty chief to t… They showed him strange, unwonted… Yet as he wandered up and down, He seemed to scorn their vain deli… His face was grim, his eye lacked…
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…
It was foretold by sybils three that in an air crash he would die. “I’ll fool their prophesy,” said h… “You won’t get me to go on high. Howe’re the need for haste and spe…
Said I: “See yon vast heaven shin… What earthly sight diviner? Before such radiant Design Why doubt Designer?” Said he: “Design is just a though…
Since I am sick of Wheels That jar my day, Unto the hush that heals I steal away. Unto the core of Peace
When you’re lost in the Wild, and… And Death looks you bang in the e… And you’re sore as a boil, it’s ac… To cock your revolver and . . . di… But the Code of a Man says: “Fig…
I do not write for love of pelf, Nor lust for phantom fame; I do not rhyme to please myself, Nor yet to win acclaim: No, strange to say it is my plan,
On this festive first of May, Wending wistfully my way Three sad sights I saw today. The first was such a lovely lad He lit with grace the sordid stree…