Lionel Johnson
(For the Rev. John J. Burke, C. S. P.) There was a murkier tinge in London’s air As if the honest fog blushed black for shame. Fools sang of sin, for other fools’ acclaim,
Mount Houvenkopf
Serene he stands, with mist serenely crowned, And draws a cloak of trees about his breast. The thunder roars but cannot break his rest And from his rugged face the tempests bound. He does
Pennies
A few long-hoarded pennies in his hand Behold him stand; A kilted Hedonist, perplexed and sad. The joy that once he had, The first delight of ownership is fled. He bows his little head.
Madness
(For Sara Teasdale) The lonely farm, the crowded street, The palace and the slum, Give welcome to my silent feet As, bearing gifts, I come. Last night a beggar crouched alone, A ragged helpless
To Certain Poets
Now is the rhymer’s honest trade A thing for scornful laughter made. The merchant’s sneer, the clerk’s disdain, These are the burden of our pain. Because of you did this befall, You brought this
Vision
(For Aline) Homer, they tell us, was blind and could not see the beautiful Faces Looking up into his own and reflecting the joy of his dream, Yet did he seem Gifted with eyes
Roses
(For Katherine Bregy) I went to gather roses and twine them in a ring, For I would make a posy, a posy for the King. I got an hundred roses, the loveliest there be,
The Snowman in the Yard
(For Thomas Augustine Daly) The Judge’s house has a splendid porch, with pillars And steps of stone, And the Judge has a lovely flowering hedge that came from across The seas; In the Hales’
Citizen of the World
No longer of Him be it said “He hath no place to lay His head.” In every land a constant lamp Flames by His small and mighty camp. There is no strange and distant
Houses
(For Aline) When you shall die and to the sky Serenely, delicately go, Saint Peter, when he sees you there, Will clash his keys and say: “Now talk to her, Sir Christopher! And hurry,
The Twelve-Forty-Five
(For Edward J. Wheeler) Within the Jersey City shed The engine coughs and shakes its head, The smoke, a plume of red and white, Waves madly in the face of night. And now the
The Apartment House
Severe against the pleasant arc of sky The great stone box is cruelly displayed. The street becomes more dreary from its shade, And vagrant breezes touch its walls and die. Here sullen convicts in
Thanksgiving
(For John Bunker) The roar of the world is in my ears. Thank God for the roar of the world! Thank God for the mighty tide of fears Against me always hurled! Thank God