Her lips’ remark was: “Oh, you ki… Her soul spoke thus (I know it di… “O king of realms of endless joy, My own, my golden grocer’s boy, I am a princess forced to dwell

Serene he stands, with mist serene… And draws a cloak of trees about h… The thunder roars but cannot break… And from his rugged face the tempe… He does not heed the angry lightni…

(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 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…

(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…

Tired clerks, pale girls, street c… Boys, priests and harlots, drunkar… Each one the pleasant outer sunshi… They mingle in this stifling, loud… The gate clangs to– we stir– we sw…

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 Sara Teasdale) The lonely farm, the crowded stree… The palace and the slum, Give welcome to my silent feet As, bearing gifts, I come.

A few long-hoarded pennies in his… Behold him stand; A kilted Hedonist, perplexed and… The joy that once he had, The first delight of ownership is…

“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 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.

(For Aline) Homer, they tell us, was blind and… Looking up into his own and reflec… Yet did he seem Gifted with eyes that could follow…

Because we never build a nest And no one of us ever sings, We are the butt of every jest That strutting loud-mouthed robin… Unless the field with laughter rin…

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,

When Dawn strides out to wake a d… Across green fields and yellow hil… The little twittering birds laugh… And poise triumphant on his shinin… He bears a sword of flame but not…