When the Festal Board, as the pap… Groans 'neath the weight of a lot… At breakfast, Fruhstuck or dejeun… (As a bard tri-lingual I’m rather… At breakfast, then, if I may repe…

I do not hold with him who thinks The world is jonahed by a jinx; That everything is sad and sour, And life a withered hothouse flowe… I hate the Polyanna pest

’Twas on the shores that round our… From Deal to Newport lie That I roused from sleep in a hud… An elderly wealthy guy. His hair was graying, his hair was…

Labor is a thing I do not like; Workin’s makes me want to go on st… Sittin’ in an office on a sunny af… Thinkin o’ nothin’ but a ragtime t… ‘Cause I got the blues, I said I…

[I was talking with a newspaper man the other day who seemed to think that the fact that Mrs. Carlyle threw a teacup at Mr. Carlyle should be given to the public merely as a fact. But a...

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

Motto heartening, inspiring, Framed above my pretty *desk, Never Shelley, Keats, or Byring* Penned a phrase so picturesque! But in me no inspiration

Horace: Book I, Ode 2 “Tu ne quæsieris, scire nefas, qu… AD LEUCONOEN Look not, Leuconoë, into the fut… Seek not to find what the answer m…

(March 4, 1913) Thine aid, O Muse, I consciously… I crave thy succour, ask for thine… That men may cry: “Some little od… O Muse, grant me the strength to…

For something like eleven summers I’ve written things that aimed to… Our careless mealy-mouthéd mummers To be more sedulous of speech. So sloppy of articulation

When first I doffed my olive drab… I thought, delightfully though mut… “Henceforth I shall have pleasure… Solutely.” Dull with the drudgery of war,

“Gentle Jane was as good as gold,… To borrow a line from Mr. Gilbert… She hated War with a hate untold, She was a pacifistic filbert. If you said “Perhaps”—she’d leave…

What time I read your mighty line… O Mr. Q. Horatius Flaccus, In praise of many an ancient wine— You twanged a wickid lyric to Bac… I wondered, like a Yankee hick,

Sing, O Muse, in treble clef, A little song of the A.E.F., And pardon me, please, if I give… To something akin to sentiment. But we have our moments Over Here