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

[This is the hymn to Eleanor,… This is a song to the white-armed… Cold in the breast as the frost-wr… Whose feet are slow on the hills o… Whose round mouth rules by whisper…

(What the Mendicant Said ) The moon’s a monk, unmated, Who walks his cell, the sky. His strength is that of heaven-vow… Who all life’s flames defy.

Sometimes we remember kisses, Remember the dear heart-leap when… Not always, but sometimes we remem… The kindness, the dumbness, the go… Of laughter and farewell.

He paid a Swede twelve bits an ho… Just to invent a fancy style To spread the celebration paint So it would show at least a mile. Some things they did I will not t…

(A Poem Game.) “Down cellar,” said the cricket, “Down cellar,” said the cricket, “Down cellar,” said the cricket, “I saw a ball last night,

“Tell me, where do ghosts in love Find their bridal veils?” “If you and I were ghosts in love We’d climb the cliffs of Mystery, Above the sea of Wails.

’Tis a moonlight night in the spring of the year.” In Which, contrary to Artistic Custom, the moral of the piece is placed before the reader. (From the first Khandaka of the M...

An old actor at the Player’s Club told me that Edwin Booth first impersonated Hamlet when a barnstormer in California. There were few theatres, but the hotels were provided with crude a...

Look you, I’ll go pray, My shame is crying, My soul is gray and faint, My faith is dying. Look you, I’ll go pray—

[Concerning O. Henry (Sidney… “He could not forget that he was a… Is this Sir Philip Sidney, this… The darling of the glad and gaping… This is that dubious hero of the p…

This poem is intended as a description of a sort of Blashfield mural painting on the sky. To be sung to the tune of Yankee Doodle, yet in a slower, more orotund fashion. It is presum...

Kiss me and comfort my heart Maiden honest and fine. I am the pilgrim boy Lame, but hunting the shrine; Fleeing away from the sweets,

The moon is now an opening flower, The sky a cliff of blue. The moon is now a silver rose; Her pollen is the dew. Her pollen is the mist that swings

Life’s a jail where men have commo… Gaunt the one who has, and who has… All our treasures neither less nor… Bread alone comes thro’ the guarde… Cards are foolish in this jail, I…