When I see a young tree In its white beginning, With white leaves And white buds Barely tipped with green,

[Written while a field-worker i… King Arthur’s men have come again… They challenge everywhere The foes of Christ’s Eternal Chu… Her incense crowns the air.

(Being a Chant of the American… O market square, O slattern place… Is glory in your slack disgrace? Plump quack doctors sell their pil… Gentle grafters sell brass watches…

[A Poem for Aviators] How the Wings Were Made From many morning-glories That in an hour will fade, From many pansy buds

I. SPEAK NOW FOR PEACE<… Lady of Light, and our best woman… Stand now for peace, (though anger… Though naught but smoke and flame… Lady of Light, speak, though you…

In fairyland the little boys Would rather fight than eat their… They like to chase a gauze-winged… And catch and beat him till he squ… Sometimes they come to sleeping me…

Part I.A Short Walk Along the C… Yes, I have walked in California, And the rivers there are blue and… Thunderclouds of grapes hang on th… Bears in the meadows pitch and fig…

This doll upon the topmost bough, This playmate-gift, in Christmas… Was taken down and brought to me One sleety night most comfortless. Her hair was gold, her dolly-sash

An endless line of splendor, These troops with heaven for home, With creeds they go from Scotland… With incense go from Rome. These, in the name of Jesus,

Old Euclid drew a circle On a sand-beach long ago. He bounded and enclosed it With angles thus and so. His set of solemn greybeards

The Jazz-bird sings a barnyard so… A cock-a-doodle bray, A jingle-bells, a boiler works, A he-man’s roundelay. The eagle said, ‘My noisy son,

[To be sung to the tune of The… [Bass drum beaten loudly.] Booth led boldly with his big bass… (Are you washed in the blood of th… The Saints smiled gravely and the…

The whole world on a raft! A King… The record of his grandeur but a s… Is it his deacon-beard, or old bal… That makes the band upon his whims… Loot and mud-honey have his soul d…

The Moon’s the North Wind’s cook… He bites it, day by day, Until there’s but a rim of scraps That crumble all away. The South Wind is a baker.

My lady in her white silk shawl Is like a lily dim, Within the twilight of the room Enthroned and kind and prim. My lady! Pale gold is her hair.