Noctambule
Zut! it’s two o’clock. See! the lights are jumping. Finish up your bock, Time we all were humping. Waiters stack the chairs, Pile them on the tables; Let us to our lairs Underneath the
Security
Young man, gather gold and gear, They will wear you well; You can thumb your nose at fear, Wish the horde in hell. With the haughty you can be Insolent and bold: Young man,
Contrast
“Carry your suitcase, Sir?” he said. I turned away to hide a grin, For he was shorter by a head Than I and pitiably thin. I could have made a pair of him, So
Sea Change
I saw a Priest in beetle black Come to our golden beach, And I was taken sore aback Lest he should choose to preach And chide me for my only wear, A “Gee” string
Dedication To Providence
I loved to toy with tuneful rhyme, My fancies into verse to weave; For as I walked my words would chime So bell-like I could scarce believe; My rhymes rippled like a brook, My
Heart O' The North
And when I come to the dim trail-end, I who have been Life’s rover, This is all I would ask, my friend, Over and over and over: A little space on a stony hill
The Parting
Sky’s a-waxin’ grey, Got to be a-goin’; Gittin’ on my way, Where? I ain’t a-knowin’. Fellers, no more jokes, Fun an’ frisky greetin’ So long, all you folks, Been nice our meetin’. Sky’s a-growin’
I Will Not Fight
I will not fight: though proud of pith I hold no one worth striving with; And should resentment burn my breast I deem that silence serves me best: So having not a word to
Finality
When I am dead I will not care How future generations fare, For I will be so unaware. Though fields their slain has carpeted, And seas be salt with tears they shed, Not one
Failure
He wrote a play; by day and night He strove with passion and delight; Yet knew, long ere the curtain drop, His drama was a sorry flop. In Parliament he sought a seat; Election
Stowaway
We’d left the sea-gulls long behind, And we were almost in mid-ocean; The sky was soft and blue and kind, The boat had scarcely any motion; Except that songfully it sped, And sheared the
Inspiration
How often have I started out With no thought in my noodle, And wandered here and there about, Where fancy bade me toddle; Till feeling faunlike in my glee I’ve voiced some gay distiches,
Home And Love
Just Home and Love! the words are small Four little letters unto each; And yet you will not find in all The wide and gracious range of speech Two more so tenderly complete: When
Lost Shepherd
Ah me! How hard is destiny! If we could only know. . . . I bought my son from Sicily A score of years ago; I haled him from our sunny vale To streets
The Absinthe Drinkers
He’s yonder, on the terrace of the Cafe de la Paix, The little wizened Spanish man, I see him every day. He’s sitting with his Pernod on his customary chair; He’s staring at the