The Contented Man
“How good God is to me,” he said; “For have I not a mansion tall, With trees and lawns of velvet tread, And happy helpers at my call? With beauty is my life abrim,
Fulfilment
I sing of starry dreams come true, Of hopes fulfilled; Of rich reward beyond my due, Of harvest milled. The full fruition of the years Is mine to hold, And in despite of toil
Why Do Birds Sing?
Let poets piece prismatic words, Give me the jewelled joy of birds! What ecstasy moves them to sing? Is it the lyric glee of Spring, The dewy rapture of the rose? Is it the
Compassion
What puts me in a rage is The sight of cursed cages Where singers of the sky Perch hop instead of fly; Where lions to and fro Pace seven yards or so: I who
The Cuckoo
No lyric line I ever penned The praise this parasitic bird; And what is more, I don’t intend To write a laudatory word, Since in my garden robins made A nest with eggs of
The Blind And The Dead
She lay like a saint on her copper couch; Like an angel asleep she lay, In the stare of the ghoulish folks that slouch Past the Dead and sneak away. Then came old Jules
The Fool
“But it isn’t playing the game,” he said, And he slammed his books away; “The Latin and Greek I’ve got in my head Will do for a duller day.” “Rubbish!” I cried; “The bugle’s
Plebeian Plutocrat
I own a gorgeous Cadillac, A chauffeur garbed in blue; And as I sit behind his back His beefy neck I view. Yet let me whisper, though you may Think me a queer old
The Thinker
Of all the men I ever knew The tinkingest was Uncle Jim; If there were any chores to do We couldn’t figure much on him. He’d have a thinking job on hand, And on
Bird Watcher
In Wall Street once a potent power, And now a multi-millionaire Alone within a shady bower In clothes his valet would not wear, He watches bird wings bright the air. The man who mighty
My Trinity
For all good friends who care to read, Here let me lyre my living creed. . . One: you may deem me Pacifist, For I’ve no sympathy with strife. Like hell I hate the
The Score
Because I’ve come to eighty odd, I must prepare to meet you, God. What should I do? I cannot pray, I have no pious words to say; And though the Bible I might read,
Highland Hospitality
Unto his housemaid spoke the Laird: “Tonight the Bishop is our guest; The spare room must be warmed and aired: To please him we will do our best. A worthy haggis you must make,
To Sunnydale
There lies the trail to Sunnydale, Amid the lure of laughter. Oh, how can we unhappy be Beneath its leafy rafter! Each perfect hour is like a flower, Each day is like a posy.
Captivity
O meadow lark, so wild and free, It cannot be, it cannot be, That men to merchandise your spell Do close you in a wicker hell! O hedgerow thrush so mad with glee, It