#1912 #AmericanWriters #RhymesOfARollingStone
Tis hard to hang a husky lad When larks are in the sky; It hurts when daffydills are glad To wring a neck awry, When joy o’ Spring is in the sap
Since four decades you’ve been to… Both Guide and Friend, I fondly hope you’ll always be, Right to the end; And though my rhymes you rarely sc…
“Where are you going, Young Fello… On this glittering morn of May?” “I’m going to join the Colours, D… They’re looking for men, they say.… “But you’re only a boy, Young Fel…
I used to think a pot of ink Held magic in its fluid, And I would ply a pen when I Was hoary a a Druid; But as I scratch my silver thatch
Bed and bread are all I need In my happy day; Love of Nature is my creed, Unto her I pray; Sun and sky my spirit feed
There will be a singing in your he… There will be a rapture in your ey… You will be a woman set apart, You will be so wonderful and wise. You will sleep, and when from drea…
The red—roofed house of dream desi… Looks three ways on the sea; For fifty years I’ve made it mine… And held it part of me. The pines I planted in my youth
Have you gazed on naked grandeur w… Set pieces and drop—curtain scenes… Big mountains heaved to heaven, wh… Black canyons where the rapids rip… Have you swept the visioned valley…
This is the end of all my ways, My wanderings on earth, My gloomy and my golden days, My madness and my mirth. I’ve bought ten thousand blades of…
The sunshine seeks my little room To tell me Paris streets are gay; That children cry the lily bloom All up and down the leafy way; That half the town is mad with Ma…
A bunch of the boys were whooping… The kid that handles the music—box… Back of the bar, in a solo game, s… And watching his luck was his ligh… When out of the night, which was f…
To be a bony feed Sourdough You must, by Yukon Law, Have killed a moose, And robbed a sluice, AND BUNKED UP WITH A SQU…
Said Hongray de la Glaciere unto… "I want to take a wife mon Père,"… And whose, my son?” he slyly said;… Cried, “Fi! Papa, I mean —to wed… The Marquis de la Glaciere respon…
When I am dead I will not care Forever more, If sky be radiantly fair Or tempest roar. If my life—hoard in sin be spent,
The Spanish women don’t wear slac… Because their hips are too enormou… 'Tis true each bulbous bosom lacks No inspiration that should warm us… But how our ardor seems to freeze