I stood beside the silken rope, Five dollars in my hand, And waited in my patient hope To sit anear the Band, And hear the famous Louie play

What have we done, Oh Lord, that… Are evil starred? How have we erred and sinned to be So scourged and scarred? Lash us, Oh Lord, with scorpion w…

Grand—daughter of the Painted Nai… As if they had been dipped in gore… I’d like to set you lugging pails And make you scrub the kitchen flo… I’m old and crotchety of course,

To me at night the stars are vocal… They say: 'Your planet’s oh so lo… A speck of dust in heaven’s ceilin… Your faith divine a foolish feelin… What odds if you are chaos hurled,

My daughter Susie, aged two, Apes me in every way, For as my household chores I do With brooms she loves to play. A scrubbing brush to her is dear;

Let us be thankful, Lord, for lit… The song of birds, the rapture of… Cloud—dappled skies, the laugh of… Drowned sunbeams and the perfume… Bronze wheat a—shimmer, purple sha…

‘Come, see,’ said he, ‘my four—foo… A forty volume row; And every one I wrote myself, But that, of course, you know.’ I stared, I searched a memory dim…

They must not wed the Doctor said… For they were far from strong, And children of their marriage bed Might not live overlong. And yet each eve I saw them pass

What was the blackest sight to me Of all that campaign? A naked woman tied to a tree With jagged holes where her breast… Rotting there in the rain.

I like to think that when I fall, A rain—drop in Death’s shoreless… This shelf of books along the wall… Beside my bed, will mourn for me. Regard it. . . . Aye, my taste is…

Fearing that she might go one day With some fine fellow of her choic… I called her from her childish pla… And made a record of her voice. And now that she is truly gone,

Though elegance I ill afford, My living—room is green and gold; The former tenant was a lord Who died of drinking, I am told. I fancy he was rather bored;

I’ve tinkered at my bits of rhymes In weary, woeful, waiting times; In doleful hours of battle—din, Ere yet they brought the wounded i… Through vigils of the fateful nigh…

Each day I live I thank the Lord I do the work I love; And in it find a rich reward, All price and praise above. For few may do the work they love,

Gazing to gold seraph wing, With wistful wonder in my eyes, A blue—behinded ape, I swing Upon the palms of Paradise. A parakeet of gaudy hue