Tom Merritt
At first I suspected something She acted so calm and absent-minded. And one day I heard the back door shut, As I entered the front, and I saw him slink Back of the smokehouse
Davis Matlock
Suppose it is nothing but the hive: That there are drones and workers And queens, and nothing but storing honey (Material things as well as culture and wisdom) For the next generation, this generation
Henry Phipps
I was the Sunday school superintendent, The dummy president of the wagon works And the canning factory, Acting for Thomas Rhodes and the banking clique; My son the cashier of the bank, Wedded to
Richard Bone
When I first came to Spoon River I did not know whether what they told me Was true or false. They would bring me an epitaph And stand around the shop while I worked
Doc Hill
I went up and down the streets Here and there by day and night, Through all hours of the night caring for the poor who were sick. Do you know why? My wife hated
Penniwit, the Artist
I lost my patronage in Spoon River From trying to put my mind in the camera To catch the soul of the person. The very best picture I ever took Was of Judge Somers,
Hamlet Micure
In a lingering fever many visions come to you: I was in the little house again With its great yard of clover Running down to the board-fence, Shadowed by the oak tree, Where we
Jonathan Houghton
There is the caw of a crow, And the hesitant song of a thrush. There is the tinkle of a cowbell far away, And the voice of a plowman on Shipley’s hill. The forest
Ollie McGee
Have you seen walking through the village A man with downcast eyes and haggard face? That is my husband who, by secret cruelty Never to be told, robbed me of my youth and my
Zilpha Marsh
At four o’clock in late October I sat alone in the country school-house Back from the road ‘mid stricken fields, And an eddy of wind blew leaves on the pane, And crooned in the
E. C. Culbertson
Is it true, Spoon River, That in the hall-way of the New Court House There is a tablet of bronze Containing the embossed faces Of Editor Whedon and Thomas Rhodes? And is it true
Webster Ford
Do you remember, O Delphic Apollo, The sunset hour by the river, when Mickey M’Grew Cried, “There’s a ghost,” and I, “It’s Delphic Apollo”; And the son of the banker derided us, saying, “It’s
Captain Orlando Killion
Oh, you young radicals and dreamers, You dauntless fledglings Who pass by my headstone, Mock not its record of my captaincy in the army And my faith in God! They are not denials of
Yee Bow
They got me into the Sunday-school In Spoon River And tried to get me to drop Confucius for Jesus. I could have been no worse off If I had tried to get them to
Granville Calhoun
I wanted to be County Judge One more term, so as to round out a service Of thirty years. But my friends left me and joined my enemies, And they elected a new man.