Works

I pity him who has not swung
The Thyrsus in the air,
And followed Bacchus, blithe and young,
"With vine-leaves in his hair;
And heard the Maenads sing,
And the mad cymbals ring.
...

Bouquet said: 'My floral ring
The homage of a heart encloses,
Whose thoughts to you go worshipping
In perfume from my blushing roses.'

Bracelet said: 'My rubies red,...

When trees in Spring
Are blossoming
My lady wakes
From dreams whose light
Made dark days bright,
For their sweet sakes.

Yet in her eyes
A shadow lies
Of bygone mirth;...

The days go by, the days go by,
Sadly and wearily to die:
Each with its burden of small cares,
Each with its sad gift of gray hairs
For those who sit, like me, and sigh,...

The world was in my debt,
I was the Friend of Man,
When, years ago, I met
The Old Bohemian.

His hat was shocking bad,
He wore a faded tie,
And yet, withal, he had...

Once upon a hushed red morning
In the wondrous years of old,
When the sun rose like a Rajah
Clad in robes of gleaming gold,

And upon his land of India
Poured the largess of his heart,...