Joey
I thought I would go daft when Joey died. He was my first, and wise beyond his years. For nigh a hundred nights I cried and cried, Until my weary eyes burned up my
Laziness
Let laureates sing with rapturous swing Of the wonder and glory of work; Let pulpiteers preach and with passion impeach The indolent wretches who shirk. No doubt they are right: in the stress of
Breath Is Enough
I draw sweet air Deeply and long, As pure as prayer, As sweet as song. Where lilies glow And roses wreath, Heart-joy I know Is just to breathe. Aye, so I think By shore
The Mystery Of Mister Smith
For supper we had curried tripe. I washed the dishes, wound the clock; Then for awhile I smoked my pipe – Puff! Puff! We had no word of talk. The Misses sewed – a
Design
Said Seeker of the skies to me: “Behold yon starry host ashine! When Heaven’s harmony you see How can you doubt control divine, Law, order and design?” “Nay, Sire,” said I, “I do not
Washerwife
The aged Queen who passed away Had sixty servants, so they say; Twice sixty hands her shoes to tie: Two soapy ones have I. The old Queen had of beds a score; A cot
Tim
My brother Tim has children ten, While I have none. Maybe that’s why he’s toiling when To ease I’ve won. But though I would some of his brood Give hearth and care, I know
Ambition
They brought the mighty chief to town; They showed him strange, unwonted sights; Yet as he wandered up and down, He seemed to scorn their vain delights. His face was grim, his eye lacked
The Little Old Log Cabin
When a man gits on his uppers in a hard-pan sort of town, An’ he ain’t got nothin’ comin’ an’ he can’t afford ter eat, An’ he’s in a fix for lodgin’ an’ he
Dance-Hall Girls
Where are the dames I used to know In Dawson in the days of yore? Alas, it’s fifty years ago, And most, I guess, have “gone before.” The swinging scythe is swift to mow
Red-Tiled Roof
Poets may praise a wattle thatch Doubtfully waterproof; Let me uplift my lowly latch Beneath a rose-tiled roof. Let it be gay and rich in hue, Soft bleached by burning days, Where skies ineffably
Ripeness
With peace and rest And wisdom sage, Ripeness is best Of every age. With hands that fold In pensive prayer, For grave-yard mold Prepare. From fighting free With fear forgot, Let ripeness be, Before
Dark Trinity
Said I to Pain: “You would not dare Do ill to me.” Said Pain: “Poor fool! Why should I care Whom you may be? To clown and king alike I bring My meed of
The Dauber
In stilly grove beside the sea He mingles colours, measures space; A bronze and breezy man is he, Yet peace is in his face. Behold him stand and longly stare, Till deft of hand
The Soldier Of Fortune
“Deny your God!” they ringed me with their spears; Blood-crazed were they, and reeking from the strife; Hell-hot their hate, and venom-fanged their sneers, And one man spat on me and nursed a knife.