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,

Now is the rhymer’s honest trade A thing for scornful laughter made… The merchant’s sneer, the clerk’s… These are the burden of our pain. Because of you did this befall,

(For Amelia Josephine Burr) The road is wide and the stars are… and the breath of the night is swe… And this is the time when wanderlu… But I’m glad to turn from the ope…

(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 Kenton) An iron hand has stilled the throa… That throbbed with loud and rhythm… And dammed the flood of silver not… That drenched the world in melody.

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…

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

The halls that were loud with the… Are still with a stillness that is… And never a gust of laughter break… Or rises to shake the ivied walls… The dust is on book and on empty d…

Why is that wanton gossip Fame So dumb about this man’s affairs? Why do we titter at his name Who come to buy his curious wares? Here is a shop of wonderment.

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…

(For Edward J. Wheeler) Within the Jersey City shed The engine coughs and shakes its h… The smoke, a plume of red and whit… Waves madly in the face of night.

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,

(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…

We who beg for bread as we daily t… Country lane and city street, Let us kneel and pray on the broad… To the saint with the vagrant feet… Our altar light is a buttercup bri…

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…