Memorial Day
“Dulce et decorum est” The bugle echoes shrill and sweet, But not of war it sings to-day. The road is rhythmic with the feet Of men-at-arms who come to pray. The roses blossom white
The Big Top
The boom and blare of the big brass band is cheering To my heart And I like the smell of the trampled grass and elephants and hay. I take off my hat to the
Poets
Vain is the chiming of forgotten bells That the wind sways above a ruined shrine. Vainer his voice in whom no longer dwells Hunger that craves immortal Bread and Wine. Light songs we breathe
Apology
(For Eleanor Rogers Cox) For blows on the fort of evil That never shows a breach, For terrible life-long races To a goal no foot can reach, For reckless leaps into darkness With hands
The Robe of Christ
(For Cecil Chesterton) At the foot of the Cross on Calvary Three soldiers sat and diced, And one of them was the Devil And he won the Robe of Christ. When the Devil comes
Trees
(For Mrs. Henry Mills Alden) I think that I shall never see A poem lovely as a tree. A tree whose hungry mouth is prest Against the earth’s sweet flowing breast; A tree that
Mid-ocean in War-time
(For My Mother) The fragile splendour of the level sea, The moon’s serene and silver-veiled face, Make of this vessel an enchanted place Full of white mirth and golden sorcery. Now, for a time,
The Proud Poet
(For Shaemas O Sheel) One winter night a Devil came and sat upon my bed, His eyes were full of laughter for his heart was full of crime. “Why don’t you take up fancy
The House with Nobody in It
Whenever I walk to Suffern along the Erie track I go by a poor old farmhouse with its shingles broken and black. I suppose I’ve passed it a hundred times, but I always stop
Servant Girl and Grocer's Boy
Her lips’ remark was: “Oh, you kid!” Her soul spoke thus (I know it did): “O king of realms of endless joy, My own, my golden grocer’s boy, I am a princess forced to
Easter Week
(In memory of Joseph Mary Plunkett) (“Romantic Ireland’s dead and gone, It’s with O’Leary in the grave.”) William Butler Yeats. “Romantic Ireland’s dead and gone, It’s with O’Leary in the grave.” Then, Yeats, what
Wealth
(For Aline) From what old ballad, or from what rich frame Did you descend to glorify the earth? Was it from Chaucer’s singing book you came? Or did Watteau’s small brushes give you birth?
A Blue Valentine
(For Aline) Monsignore, Right Reverend Bishop Valentinus, Sometime of Interamna, which is called Ferni, Now of the delightful Court of Heaven, I respectfully salute you, I genuflect And I kiss your episcopal ring. It
Roofs
(For Amelia Josephine Burr) The road is wide and the stars are out And the breath of the night is sweet, And this is the time when wanderlust should seize upon my feet. But
The Thorn
(For the Rev. Charles L. O’Donnell, C. S. C.) The garden of God is a radiant place, And every flower has a holy face: Our Lady like a lily bends above the cloudy sod,