#1912 #AmericanWriters #RhymesOfARollingStone
Courage mes gars: La guerre est proche. I plant my little plot of beans, I sit beneath my cyprus tree; I do not know what trouble means,
A gaunt and hoary slab of stone I found in desert place, And wondered why it lay alone In that abandoned place. Said I: ‘Maybe a Palace stood
If she met him or he met her, I knew that something must occur; For they were just like flint and… To strike the spark of woe and wea… Or like two splinters broken fine,
First Ghost To sepulcher my mouldy bones I bough a pile of noble stones, And half a year a sculptor spent To hew my marble monument,
How often do I wish I were What people call a character; A ripe and cherubic old chappie Who lives to make his fellows happ… With in his eyes a merry twinkle,
Toil’s a tunnel, there’s no way ou… For fellows, the like o’ me; A beggar wi’ only a crust an’ a cl… At the worst o’ the worst is free; but I work to eat, an’ I eat to w…
Said she: 'Although my husband Ji… Is with his home content, I never should have married him, We are so different. Oh yes, I know he loves me well,
Can you recall, dear comrade, when… And we sang the old, old Earth—so… When we drank and fought and luste… Along the road to Anywhere, the w… Along the road to Anywhere, when…
Twin boys I bore, my joy, my care… My hope, my life they were to me; Their father, dashing, debonair, Fell fighting at Gallipoli. His daring gallantry, no doubt,
One spoke: “Come, let us gaily go With laughter, love and lust, Since in a century or so We’ll all be boneyard dust. When unborn shadows hold the scree…
I am a Day . . . My sky is grey, My wind is wild, My sea high—piled: In year of days the first
I sing of starry dreams come true, Of hopes fulfilled; Of rich reward beyond my due, Of harvest milled. The full fruition of the years
On silver sand where ripples curle… I counted sea—gulls seven; Shy, secret screened from all the… And innocent as heaven. They did not of my nearness know,
The Countess sprawled beside the… As naked a she well could be; Indeed her only garments were A “G” string and a brassière Her washerwoman was amazed,
Father drank himself to death,— Quite enjoyed it. Urged to draw a sober breath He’d avoid it. ‘Save your sympathy,’ said Dad;