The moon’s a brass-hooped water-ke… A wondrous water-feast. If I could climb the ridge and dr… And give drink to my beast; If I could drain that keg, the fl…

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…

Girl with the burning golden eyes, And red-bird song, and snowy throa… I bring you gold and silver moons, And diamond stars, and mists that… I bring you moons and snowy clouds…

(Note:—Pocahontas is buried at… “Pocahontas’ body, lovely as a pop… CARL SANDBURG. Powhatan was conqueror, Powhatan was emperor.

FOR A VERY LITTLE GI… CATHARINE FRAZEE WAKEF… The sun gives not directly The coal, the diamond crown; Not in a special basket

Think not that incense-smoke has h… My friends, the incense-time has b… Creed upon creed, cult upon cult s… Shrine after shrine grow gray bene… And mountain-boulders in our aged…

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

O great heart of God, Once vague and lost to me, Why do I throb with your throb to… In this land, eternity? O little heart of God,

Your dust will be upon the wind Within some certain years, Though you be sealed in lead to-da… Amid the country’s tears. When this idyllic churchyard

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.

[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.

Sleep softly... eagle forgotten...… Time has its way with you there, a… “We have buried him now,” thought… They made a brave show of their mo… They had snarled at you, barked at…

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…

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…

Ah, she was music in herself, A symphony of joyousness. She sang, she sang from finger tip… From every tremble of her dress. I saw sweet haunting harmony,