[To be sung to the tune of The… [Bass drum beaten loudly.] Booth led boldly with his big bass… (Are you washed in the blood of th… The Saints smiled gravely and the…

The Moon’s the North Wind’s cook… He bites it, day by day, Until there’s but a rim of scraps That crumble all away. The South Wind is a baker.

Life’s a jail where men have commo… Gaunt the one who has, and who has… All our treasures neither less nor… Bread alone comes thro’ the guarde… Cards are foolish in this jail, I…

’Tis a moonlight night in the spring of the year.” In Which, contrary to Artistic Custom, the moral of the piece is placed before the reader. (From the first Khandaka of the M...

Written to Miss Alice L. F.… Your fine white hand is Heaven’s… To cure the wide world, stricken s… Bleeding at the breast and head, Tearing at its wounds once more.

Sometimes we remember kisses, Remember the dear heart-leap when… Not always, but sometimes we remem… The kindness, the dumbness, the go… Of laughter and farewell.

(What the Mendicant Said ) The moon’s a monk, unmated, Who walks his cell, the sky. His strength is that of heaven-vow… Who all life’s flames defy.

Oh, once I walked a garden In dreams. ’Twas yellow grass. And many orange-trees grew there In sand as white as glass. The curving, wide wall-border

A Chant for Boys with Manly Voic… (Every line sung one step deeper t… Any sky-bird sings, Ring, ring! Any church-chime rings,

The moon is but a golden skull, She mounts the heavens now, And Moon-Worms, mighty Moon-Worm… Are wreathed around her brow. The Moon-Worms are a doughty race…

Incense and Splendor haunt me as… Though my good works have been, al… Though I do naught, High Heaven… And future ages pass in tall revie… I see the years to come as armies…

(Matthew V, 38-48.) Who can surrender to Christ, divi… Giving to each what he asks, bravi… All for the enemy, MAN? Who can… His words and his works, his house…

A little colt—broncho, loaned to t… To be broken in time without fury… Yet black crows flew past you, sho… Calling “Beware,” with lugubrious… The butterflies there in the bush…

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 saw wild domes and bowers And smoking incense towers And mad exotic flowers In Illinois. Where ragged ditches ran