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.
O Moon, Mr. Moon, When you comin' down? Down on the hilltop, Down in the glen, Out in the clearin', To play with little men? Moon, Mr. Moon, When you comin' down?
The blue night, like an angel, came into the room,-- Came through the open window from the silent sky Down trellised stairs of moonlight into the dear room As if a whisper breathed of some divine one nigh....
The body is no prison where we lie Shut out from our true heritage of sun; It is the wings wherewith the soul may fly. Save through this flesh so scorned and spat upon,...
The typewriter ticketh no more in the twilight; The mother of poets is sitting alone; Only the katydid teases the noonday; Where are the good-for-naught wanderbirds flown? ...