They say one king is mad. Perhaps… They say one king is doddering and… They say one king is slack and sic… A puppet for hid strings that twit… Is Europe then to be their sprawl…

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

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…

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…

(To a Man who maintained that… I would be one with the dark, dark… Follow the plough with a yokel tre… I would be part of the Indian cor… Walking the rows with the plumes o…

The wide Pacific waters And the Atlantic meet. With cries of joy they mingle, In tides of love they greet. Above the drowned ages

Incense and Splendor haunt me as… Though my good works have been, al… Though I do naught, High Heaven… And future ages pass in tall revie… I see the years to come as armies…

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...

Let not our town be large, remembe… That little Athens was the Muses’… That Oxford rules the heart of Lo… That Florence gave the Renaissanc… Record it for the grandson of your…

“Yes,” said the sister with the li… The busy little sister with the fu… “This is the climax, the grand fif… There rides the proud, at the fini… There goes the hearse, the mourner…

O dandelion, rich and haughty, King of village flowers! Each day is coronation time, You have no humble hours. I like to see you bring a troop

Last night at black midnight I wo… The windows were shaking, there wa… The floor was a-tremble, the door… White fires, crimson fires, shone… I rushed to the door yard. The ci…

[How different people and differen… The Old Horse in the City The moon’s a peck of corn. It lie… Heaped up for me to eat. I wish that I might climb the pat…

Sometimes I dip my pen and find t… The salamanders flying forth I ca… It’s Etna, or Vesuvius, if those… And then ’tis but itself again, an… And so my blood grows cold. I say…