That Barret, the painter of pictu… And Fanning, the maker of music,… And Harley, the writer of stories… To hark to their talk in the trenc… Of the day when the war would be o…
Folk ask if I’m alive, Most think I’m not; Yet gaily I contrive To till my plot. The world its way can go,
In youth when oft my muse was dumb… My fancy nighly dead, To make my inspiration come I stood upon my head; And thus I let the blood down flo…
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,
Now wouldn’t you expect to find a… That’s staked out nigh three hundr… That’s followed every fool stamped… Of camps where men got gold in chu… That’s prospected a bit of ground…
'Tis true my garments threadbare a… And sorry poor I seem; But inly I am richer far Than any poet’s dream. For I’ve a hidden life no one
This is the pay—day up at the mine… There’s money to burn in the stree… With a haggard face and a ribband… And I know at the dawn she’ll com… One for herself, to drown her sham…
I am a Day . . . My sky is grey, My wind is wild, My sea high—piled: In year of days the first
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…
Alphonso Rex who died in Rome Was quite a fistful as a kid; For when I visited his home, That gorgeous palace in Madrid, The grinning guide—chap showed me…
’Twas a year ago and the moon was… (Oh, I remember so well, so well)… I walked with my love in a sea of… And the voice of my sweet was a si… And sudden the moon grew strangely…
Great Grandfather was ninety—nine And so it was our one dread, That though his health was superfi… He’d fail to make the hundred. Though he was not a rolling stone
She was a Philistine spick and sp… He was a bold Bohemian. She had the mode, and the last at… He had a cape and a brigand hat. She was so riant and chic and trim…
The harridan who holds the inn At which I toss a pot, Is old and uglier than sin,— I’m glad she knows me not. Indeed, for me it’s hard to think,
Father drank himself to death,— Quite enjoyed it. Urged to draw a sober breath He’d avoid it. ‘Save your sympathy,’ said Dad;