No longer of Him be it said “He hath no place to lay His head… In every land a constant lamp Flames by His small and mighty ca… There is no strange and distant pl…

I went to gather roses and twine t… For I would make a posy, a posy f… I got an hundred roses, the loveli… From the white rose vine and the p… rose tree.

In alien earth, across a troubled… His body lies that was so fair and… His mouth is stopped, with half hi… His arm is still, that struck to m… But let no cloud of lamentation be

(For the Rev. James J. Daly, S.… Bright stars, yellow stars, flashi… Are you errant strands of Lady Ma… As she slits the cloudy veil and b… Do you fall across her cheeks and…

(For Robert Cortez Holliday) If I should live in a forest And sleep underneath a tree, No grove of impudent saplings Would make a home for me.

1814-1914 When, on a novel’s newly printed p… We find a maudlin eulogy of sin, And read of ways that harlots wand… And of sick souls that writhe in h…

Within the broken Vatican The murdered Pope is lying dead. The soldiers of Valerian Their evil hands are wet and red. Unarmed, unmoved, St. Laurence wa…

(For Aline) From what old ballad, or from what… Did you descend to glorify the ear… Was it from Chaucer’s singing boo… Or did Watteau’s small brushes gi…

My songs should be as lilies fair, And roses made of crimson light, To lie amid the fragrant hair And on the breast of my delight. Such glory is for them too high;

(For Alden March) With drooping sail and pennant That never a wind may reach, They float in sunless waters Beside a sunless beach.

With shameless and incessant lust Thy tremulous hot hands are thrust Upon my body’s loveliness. O loathsome Age, thy foul caress Puts on my heart a deadly blight,

“Dulce et decorum est” The bugle echoes shrill and sweet, But not of war it sings to-day. The road is rhythmic with the feet Of men-at-arms who come to pray.

(For Aline) When you shall die and to the sky Serenely, delicately go, Saint Peter, when he sees you the… Will clash his keys and say:

(For Thomas Walsh) On nights like this the huddled sh… Are like white clouds upon the gra… And merry herdsmen guard their sle… And chat and watch the big stars p…

In a wood they call the Rouge Bou… There is a new-made grave to-day, Built by never a spade nor pick Yet covered with earth ten metres… There lie many fighting men,