#Americans #Suicide #XIXCentury #XXCentury
St. Francis, Buddha, Tolstoi, an… Friends, if you four, as pilgrims,… Returned, the hate of earth once m… And walked upon the water and the… If you, with words celestial, stop…
“Bring me soft song,” said Aladdi… “This tailor-shop sings not at all… Chant me a word of the twilight, Of roses that mourn in the fall. Bring me a song like hashish
He paid a Swede twelve bits an ho… Just to invent a fancy style To spread the celebration paint So it would show at least a mile. Some things they did I will not t…
The moon’s an open furnace door Where all can see the blast, We shovel in our blackest griefs, Upon that grate are cast Our aching burdens, loves and fear…
I. THE LION The Lion is a kingly beast. He likes a Hindu for a feast. And if no Hindu he can get, The lion-family is upset.
A chant to which it is intended a… A master deep-eyed Ere his manhood was ripe, He sang like a thrush, He could play any pipe.
It is portentous, and a thing of s… That here at midnight, in our litt… A mourning figure walks, and will… Near the old court-house pacing up… Or by his homestead, or in shadowe…
I was but a half-grown boy, You were a girl-child slight. Ah, how weary you were! You had led in the bullock-fight..… We slew the bullock at length
The cornfields rise above mankind, Lifting white torches to the blue, Each season not ashamed to be Magnificently decked for you. What right have you to call them y…
I saw wild domes and bowers And smoking incense towers And mad exotic flowers In Illinois. Where ragged ditches ran
[Written to the Most Beautiful… MAnd never have I been in love wi… Always aspiring to be set in tune With one who is invisible, inhuman… O laughing girl, cold TRUTH has…
MOVING-PICTURE ACTRESS (On hearing she was leaving the… Mary Pickford, doll divine, Year by year, and every day At the movmg-picture play,
What the Carpenter Said The moon’s a cottage with a door. Some folks can see it plain. Look, you may catch a glint of lig… A sparkle through the pane,
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.
Look you, I’ll go pray, My shame is crying, My soul is gray and faint, My faith is dying. Look you, I’ll go pray—