'Twas a very small garden; The paths were of stone, Scattered with leaves, With moss overgrown; And a little old Cupid Stood under a tree, With a small broken bow He stood aiming at me. ...
When a man gits on his uppers in a hard-pan sort of town, An' he ain't got nothin' comin', an' he can't afford ter eat, An' he's in a fix fer lodgin', an' he wanders up an' down,...
The little old poem that nobody reads Blooms in a crowded space, Like a ground-vine blossom, so low in the weeds That nobody sees its face - Unless, perchance, the reader's eye...
In sinuous coils of the old capitals Where even horror weaves a magic spell, Gripped by my fatal humours, I observe Singular beings with appalling charms. ...
The little park planted in memory of a boy who fell in the war begins to resemble him as he was twenty eight years ago. Year by year they look more alike. His old parents come almost daily...
When the lily nods in slumber, And the roses all are sleeping; When the night hangs deep and umber, And the stars their watch are keeping; When the clematis uncloses...
Who are these strange small folk, These that come to our homes as kings, Asking nor leave nor grace, Bending our necks to their yoke, Taking the highest place, And mastery of all things? ...
Oh, some of us lolled in the chateau, And some of us slinked in the slum; But now we are here with a song and a cheer To serve at the sign of the drum....
With Roses red Roses, We'll pelt her with Roses, And Lilies white Lilies we'll drop at her feet; The little Queen's coming, The people are running The people are running to greet and to meet. ...
The great roads are all grown over That seemed so firm and white. The deep black forests have covered them. How should I walk aright? How should I thread these tangled mazes,...
When I go free, I think 'twill be A night of stars and snow, And the wild fires of frost shall light My footsteps as I go; Nobody - nobody will be there...
I'm glad that the Bushmen can't see me now A-doing it tall in the town; I've an inch-brimmed hat on my sun-burnt brow, And my collar jumps up and down. I'm wearing a vest that would charm a snake,...
The chime of the bells, and the church clock striking eight Solemnly and distinctly cries down the babel of children still playing in the hay. The church draws nearer upon us, gentle and great...
You kin boast about yer cities, and their stiddy growth and size, And brag about yer County-seats, and business enterprise, And railroads, and factories, and all sich foolery -...