#1912 #AmericanWriters #RhymesOfARollingStone
Pines against the sky, Pluming the purple hill; Pines . . . and I wonder why, Heart, you quicken and thrill? Wistful heart of a boy,
’Twas up in a land long famed for… Tellus, the smith, had taken to wi… Tellus, the brawny worker in iron,… Saw her and loved her and bore her… Deeming her worthy to queen his ho…
For oh, when the war will be over We’ll go and we’ll look for our de… We’ll go when the bee’s on the clo… And the plume of the poppy is red: We’ll go when the year’s at its ga…
Give me the scorn of the stars and… Wail of the pines and a wind with… Night and a trail unknown and a he… Give me to live and love in the ol… A soldier’s billet at night and a…
Have you gazed on naked grandeur w… Set pieces and drop—curtain scenes… Big mountains heaved to heaven, wh… Black canyons where the rapids rip… Have you swept the visioned valley…
I wanted the gold, and I sought i… I scrabbled and mucked like a slav… Was it famine or scurvy—I fought… I hurled my youth into a grave. I wanted the gold, and I got it—
A fat man sat in an orchestra stal… As he gazed at the primadonna tall… “Oh don’t you remember” he murmure… When hand in hand we used to go to… Ah me those days so gay and glad,…
“How good God is to me,” he said; “For have I not a mansion tall, With trees and lawns of velvet tre… And happy helpers at my call? With beauty is my life abrim,
To visit the Escurial We took a motor bus, And there a guide mercurial Took charge of us. He showed us through room after ro…
“Black is the sky, but the land is… (O the wind, the snow and the stor… Father, where is our boy to—night? Pray to God he is safe and warm.” “Mother, mother, why should you fe…
Heed me, feed me, I am hungry, I… Boughs of balsam, slabs of cedar,… Heap them on me, let me hug them t… Roaring, soaring up to heaven as a… Bring me knots of sunny maple, sil…
“You’re bloody right —I was a Red… The Man from Cook’s morosely said… And if our chaps had won the War Today I’d be the Governor Of all Madrid, and rule with prid…
Singing larks I saw for sale — (Ah! the pain of it) Plucked and ready to impale On a roasting spit; Happy larks that summer—long
By parents I would not be pinned, Nor in my home abide, For I was wanton as the wind And tameless as the tide; So scornful of domestic hearth,
Sea Change I saw a Priest in beetle black Come to our golden beach, And I was taken sore aback Lest he should choose to preach