They turned him loose; he bowed hi… A felon, bent and grey. His face was even as the Dead, He had no word to say. He sought the home of his old love…

Said Lenin’s ghost to Stalin’s gh… “Mate with me in the Tomb; Then day by day the rancid host May gaze upon our doom. A crystal casket we will share;

It’s a mighty good world, so it is… When even the worst is said. There’s a smile and a tear, a sigh… But better be living than dead; A joy and a pain, a loss and a gai…

I bought a cuckoo clock And glad was I To hear its tick and tock, Its dulcet cry. But Jones, whose wife is young

Drunk or sober Uncle Jim Played the boy; Never glum or sour or grim, Oozin’ joy. Most folks thought he was no good,

I wonder if successful men Are always happy? And do they sing with gusto when Springtime is sappy? Although I am of snow—white hair

Clorinda met me on the way As I came from the train; Her face was anything but gay, In fact, suggested pain. “Oh hubby, hubby dear!” she cried,

I have a tiny piney wood; my trees are only fifty, Yet give me shade and solitude For they are thick and thrifty. And every day to me they fling

I bought my little grandchild Ann A bright balloon, And I was such a happy man To hear her croon. She laughed and babbled with delig…

She was so wonderful I wondered If wedding me she had not blundere… She was so pure, so high above me, I marvelled how she came to love m… Or did she? Well, in her own fash…

God gave you guts: don’t let Him… Brace up, be worthy of His giving… The road’s a rut, the sky’s a frow… I know you’re plumb fed up with li… Fate birches you, and wry the rod…

Let us be thankful, Lord, for lit… The song of birds, the rapture of… Cloud—dappled skies, the laugh of… Drowned sunbeams and the perfume… Bronze wheat a—shimmer, purple sha…

How grand the human race would be If every man would wear a kilt, A flirt of Tartan finery, Instead of trousers, custom built! Nay, do not think I speak to joke…

Birds have no consciousness of doo… Yon thrush that serenades me daily From scented snow of hawthorn bloo… Would not trill out his glee so ga… Could he foretell his songful brea…

I like to look at fishermen And oftentimes I wish One would be lucky now and then And catch a little fish. I watch them statuesquely stand,