A Verseman's Apology
Alas! I am only a rhymer, I don’t know the meaning of Art; But I learned in my little school primer To love Eugene Field and Bret Harte. I hailed Hoosier Ryley with pleasure,
Your Poem
My poem may be yours indeed In melody and tone, If in its rhythm you can read A music of your own; If in its pale woof you can weave Your lovelier design, ‘Twill
Lobster For Lunch
His face was like a lobster red, His legs were white as mayonnaise: “I’ve had a jolly lunch,” he said, That Englishman of pleasant ways. “Thy do us well at our hotel: In England
Pilgrims
For oh, when the war will be over We’ll go and we’ll look for our dead; We’ll go when the bee’s on the clover, And the plume of the poppy is red: We’ll go
Agnostic
The chapel looms against the sky, Above the vine-clad shelves, And as the peasants pass it by They cross themselves. But I alone, I grieve to state, Lack sentiment divine: A citified sophisticate, I
Shakespeare And Cervantes
Obit 23rd April 1616 Is it not strange that on this common date, Two titans of their age, aye of all Time, Together should renounce this mortal state, And rise like gods, unsullied and
Death In The Arctic
I I took the clock down from the shelf; “At eight,” said I, “I shoot myself.” It lacked a minute of the hour, And as I waited all a-cower, A skinful of black, boding
Beak-Bashing Boy
But yesterday I banked on fistic fame, Figgerin’ I’d be a champion of the Ring. Today I’ve half a mind to quit the Game, For all them rosy dreams have taken wing, Since last
The Call
(France, August first, 1914) Far and near, high and clear, Hark to the call of War! Over the gorse and the golden dells, Ringing and swinging of clamorous bells, Praying and saying of wild
Second Childhood
When I go on my morning walk, Because I’m mild, If I be in the mood to talk I choose a child. I’d rather prattle with a lass Of tender age Than converse in
Futility
Dusting my books I spent a busy day: Not ancient toes, time-hallowed and unread, But modern volumes, classics in their way, Whose makers now are numbered with the dead; Men of a generation more
My Twins
Of twin daughters I’m the mother – Lord! how I was proud of them; Each the image of the other, Like two lilies on one stem; But while May, my first-born daughter, Was angelic
The Stretcher-Bearer
My stretcher is one scarlet stain, And as I tries to scrape it clean, I tell you wot I’m sick with pain For all I’ve ‘eard, for all I’ve seen; Around me is the
Equality
The Elders of the Tribe were grouped And squatted in the Council Cave; They seemed to be extremely pooped, And some were grim, but all were grave: The subject of their big To-do Was
Window Shopper
I stood before a candy shop Which with a Christmas radiance shone; I saw my parents pass and stop To grin at me and then go on. The sweets were heaped in gleamy rows;