Iscariot, thou grey-grown beast of blood, Stand forth to plead; stand, while red drops run here And there down fingers shaken with foul fear, Down the sick shivering chin that stooped and sued,...
His face wor varry thin an pale, His een wor strangely breet; His old rags flapt i'th' wintry gale, An shooless wor his feet. His teeth they chattered in his heead, His hands had lost ther use,...
Policeman PETER forth I drag From his obscure retreat: He was a merry genial wag, Who loved a mad conceit. If he were asked the time of day, By country bumpkins green,...
From Venus born, thy beauty shows; But who thy father, no man knows: Nor can the skilful herald trace The founder of thy ancient race; Whether thy temper, full of fire, Discovers Vulcan for thy sire,...
God, may Thy loving Spirit work, In heart of Russian, and of Turk, Until throughout each clime and land, Armenian and Jew may stand, And claim the right of every soul To seek by its own path, the goal....
Seeds in a dry pod, tick, tick, tick, Tick, tick, tick, like mites in a quarrel - Faint iambics that the full breeze wakens - But the pine tree makes a symphony thereof....
Rigid sleeps the house in darkness, I alone Like a thing unwarrantable cross the hall And climb the stairs to find the group of doors Standing angel-stern and tall. ...
"My First, but don't suppose," he said, "I'm setting you a riddle, Is, if your Victim be in bed, Don't touch the curtains at his head, But take them in the middle, ...
One winter night, at half-past nine, Cold, tired, and cross, and muddy, I had come home, too late to dine, And supper, with cigars and wine, Was waiting in the study. ...
"Oh, when I was a little Ghost, A merry time had we! Each seated on his favourite post, We chumped and chawed the buttered toast They gave us for our tea."
"Don't they consult the 'Victims,' though?" I said. "They should, by rights, Give them a chance, because, you know, The tastes of people differ so, Especially in Sprites." ...
As one who strives a hill to climb, Who never climbed before: Who finds it, in a little time, Grow every moment less sublime, And votes the thing a bore:
"What's this?" I pondered. "Have I slept? Or can I have been drinking?" But soon a gentler feeling crept Upon me, and I sat and wept An hour or so, like winking.
All look and likeness caught from earth All accident of kin and birth, Had pass'd away. There was no trace Of aught on that illumined face, Uprais'd beneath the rifted stone...
This was her home; one mossy gable thrust Above the cedars and the locust trees: This was her home, whose beauty now is dust, A lonely memory for melodies The wild birds sing, the wild birds and the bees....