Swift was sweet on Stella; Poe had his Lenore; Burns’ fancy turned to Nancy And a dozen more. Poe was quite a trifler;

AD ARIUSTUM FUSCUM Horace: Book I, Ode 22. ‘_Integer vitae sclerisque purus_'… _Take it from me: A guy who’s squ… His chances always are the best.

AFTER HENLEY Where are the wheezes they essayed And where the smiles they made to… Where’s Caron’s seltzer siphon la… A squirt from which laid Herbert…

Horace: Book I, Ode 23 “Vitas hinnuleo me similis, ChloÃ… Why shun me, my Chloë? Nor pisto… Is mine with intention to kill. And yet like a llama you run to yo…

I try to touch the public taste, For thus I earn my daily bread. I try to write what folks will pas… In scrap books after I am dead. By Public Craving I am led.

“This war is a terrible thing,” he… “With its countless numbers of nee… A futile warfare it seems to me, Fought for no principle I can see… Alas, that thousands of hearts sho…

‘Scorn not the sonnet.’ Well, I r… I would not scorn a rondeau, villa… Ballade, sestina, triolet, rondel, Or e’en a quatrain, humble and for… An so it made my Pegasus to trot

They brought to me his mangled cor… And I feared lest I should swing. “O tell me, tell me,—and make it b… Why hast thou done this thing? ”Had this man robbed the starving…

A soft susurrus in the night, A song whose singer is unseen– ’Twere poetry itself to write ‘A soft susurrus in the night!’ I know, as those mosquitos bite,

In summer when the days are hot The subway is delayed a lot; In winter, quite the selfsame thin… In autumn also, and in spring. And does it not seem strange to yo…

The burden of hard hitting. Slug… Like Honus Wagner or like Tyrus… Else fandom shouteth: “Who said y… Back to the jasper league, you min… Swat, hit, connect, line out, goet…

“BEE” PALMER has taken the raw human—all too human—stuff of the underworld, with its sighs of sadness and regret, its mad merriment, its swift blaze of passion, its turbulent dances, it...

A quatrain fills a little space, Although it’s pretty small, And oftentimes, as in this case, It has no point at all.

Horace: Book I, Ode 19 “Mater sæva Cupidinum” Venus, the cruel mother of The Cupids (symbolising Love), Bids me to muse upon and sigh

Oh, some may sing of the surging s… of the raging main; Or tell of the taffrail blown away… hurricane. With an oh, of the feel of the sal…