#Americans #Suicide #XIXCentury #XXCentury
[How different people and differen… The Old Horse in the City The moon’s a peck of corn. It lie… Heaped up for me to eat. I wish that I might climb the pat…
The mouse that gnawed the oak-tree… Began his task in early life. He kept so busy with his teeth He had no time to take a wife. He gnawed and gnawed through sun a…
Down, down beneath the daisy beds, O hear the cries of pain! And moaning on the cinder-path They’re blind amid the rain. Can murmurs of the worms arise
Would that by Hindu magic we beca… Dark monks of jeweled India long… Sitting at Prince Siddartha’s fee… The foolishness of gold and love a… The gospel of the Great Renunciat…
Where a river roars in rapids And doves in maples fret, Where peace has decked the pasture… Our guardian angels met. Long they had sought each other
No man should stand before the moo… To make sweet song thereon, With dandified importance, His sense of humor gone. Nay, let us don the motley cap,
In fairyland the little boys Would rather fight than eat their… They like to chase a gauze-winged… And catch and beat him till he squ… Sometimes they come to sleeping me…
They say one king is mad. Perhaps… They say one king is doddering and… They say one king is slack and sic… A puppet for hid strings that twit… Is Europe then to be their sprawl…
MOVING-PICTURE ACTRESS (On hearing she was leaving the… Mary Pickford, doll divine, Year by year, and every day At the movmg-picture play,
The flower-fed buffaloes of the sp… In the days of long ago, Ranged where the locomotives sing And the prarie flowers lie low: The tossing, blooming, perfumed gr…
I. THE DOLL UPON TH… This doll upon the topmost bough, This playmate-gift, in Christmas… Was taken down and brought to me One sleety night most comfortless.
Friends, I will not cease hoping… Such things I see, and some of th… Though now or streets are harsh an… Though our strong youths are strid… Friends, that sweet town, that won…
Upon her breast her hands and hair Were tangled all together. The moon of June forbade me not— The golden night time weather In balmy sighs commanded me
This poem is intended as a description of a sort of Blashfield mural painting on the sky. To be sung to the tune of Yankee Doodle, yet in a slower, more orotund fashion. It is presum...
A Recitation for Martha Wakefiel… There was a little turtle. He lived in a box. He swam in a puddle. He climbed on the rocks.
