I know not, Mr. Catton, who you a… Nor very clearly why; but you go f… To show that you are many things b… A Chilean Consul with a tempting… But what they are I hardly could…

Daughter of God! Audacity divine Of clowns the terror and of brains… Not thou the inspirer of the rushi… Not thine of idiots the vocal droo… Thy bastard sister of the brow of…

Because that I am weak, my love,… I cannot follow the impatient feet Of my desire, but sit and watch th… Of the unpitying pendulum fulfill The hour appointed for the air to…

'Twas a serious person with locks… And a figure like a crescent; His gravity, clearly, had come to… But his smile was evanescent. He stood and conversed with a neig…

Editor Owen, of San Jose, Commonly known as ‘our friend J.J… Weary of scribbling for daily brea… Weary of writing what nobody read, Slept one day at his desk and drea…

The friends who stood about my bed Looked down upon my face and said: 'God’s will be done-the fellow’s d… When from my body I was free I straightway felt myself, ah me!

The rimer quenches his unheeded fi… The sound surceases and the sense… Then the domestic dog, to east and… Expounds the passions burning in h… The rising moon o’er that enchante…

I reckon that ye never knew, That dandy slugger, Tom Carew, He had a touch as light an’ free As that of any honey-bee; But where it lit there wasn’t much

By hardihood to rise and fear to s… And fitly to rebuke his sins decre… That, hide from others with what c… Night sha’n’t be black enough nor… That from himself himself can ever…

'Tis the widow of Thomas Blythe, And she goeth upon the spree, And red are cheeks of the bystande… For her acts are light and free. In a seven-ounce costume

Mahomet Stanford, with covetous s… Gazed on a vision surpassingly fai… Far on the desert’s remote extreme A mountain of gold with a mellow g… Reared its high pinnacles into the…

O ye who push and fight To hear a wanton sing Who utter the delight That has the bogus ring, O men mature in years,

Nightly I put up this humble peti… ‘Forgive me, O Father of Glories… My sins of commission, my sins of… My sins of the Mission Dolores.’

‘Tis a woeful yarn,’ said the sail… Who had sailed the northern-lakes 'No woefuler one has ever been tol… Exceptin’ them called ‘fakes.’ ‘Go on, thou son of the wind and f…

Your influence, my friend, has gat… To east and west its tides encroac… There’ll be, on all God’s foot-st… No clean spot left for God to set…