There is something in the autumn that is native to my blood-- Touch of manner, hint of mood; And my heart is like a rhyme, With the yellow and the purple and the crimson keeping time. ...
Barney McGee, there's no end of good luck in you, Will-o'-the-wisp, with a flicker of Puck in you, Wild as a bull-pup and all of his pluck in you,-- Let a man tread on your coat and he'll see!--...
Softly, softly, Niccolo Amati! What can put such fancies in your head? There, go dream of your blue-skied Cremona, While I ponder something you have said.
Buie Annajohn was the king's black mare, Buie, Buie, Buie Annajohn! Satin was her coat and silk was her hair, Buie Annajohn, The young king's own. March with the white moon, march with the sun,...
Comrades, pour the wine to-night For the parting is with dawn! Oh, the clink of cups together, With the daylight coming on! Greet the morn With a double horn, When strong men drink together! ...
"A barbered woman's man,"--yes, so He seemed to me a twelvemonth since; And so he may be--let it go-- Admit his flaws--we need not wince To find our noblest not all great....
Over the shoulders and slopes of the dune I saw the white daisies go down to the sea, A host in the sunshine, an army in June, The people God sends us to set our heart free. ...
When the bugler morn shall wind his horn, And we wake to the wild to be, Shall we open our eyes on the selfsame skies And stare at the selfsame sea? O new, new day! though you bring no stay...
They that eat the uncrushed grape Walk with steady heels: Lo, now, how they stare and gape Where the poet reels! He has drunk the sheer divine Concentration of the vine.
Floating! Floating--and all the stillness waits And listens at the ivory gates, Full of a dim uncertain presage Of some strange, undelivered message. There is no sound save from the bush...
The fervid breath of our flushed Southern May Is sweet upon the city's throat and lips, As a lover's whose tired arm slips Listlessly over the shoulder of a queen.