He lived in a box.
He swam in a puddle.
He climbed on the rocks.
He snapped at a mosquito.
He snapped at a flea.
He snapped at a minnow.
And he snapped at me.
He caught the mosquito.
He caught the flea.
He caught the minnow.
But he didn’t catch me.
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[What the Man of Faith said]
All prove our Father’s mind.The dew, the rain and moonlightDescend to bless mankind.Come, let us see that all menHave land to catch the rain,Have grass to snare the spheres of dew,And fields spread for the grain.Yea, we would give to each poor manRipe wheat and poppies red, —A peaceful place at eveningWith the stars just…
[During an anti-saloon campaign, in central Illinois.]
(For the thunders could flourish without me)And hid by a rose-hung wall,Forgetting the murder about me;And wrote, from my wound, on the stone,In mirth, half prayer, half play: —‘Send me a picture book,Send me a song, to-day.’I saw him there by the wallWhen I scarce had written the line,In the enemy’s colors dressedAnd the serpent-standard…
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 presumably an exercise for an entertainment on the evening of Washington’s Birthday.
Watching them in wonder.There I saw our spangled flagDivide the clouds asunder.Then there followed Washington.Ah, he rode from glory,Cold and mighty as his nameAnd stern as Freedom’s story.Unsubdued by burning dawnLed his continentals.Vast they were, and strange to seeIn gray old regimentals:—Marching still with bleeding feet,Bleeding feet and jesting—Marching from the judgment throneWith energy unresting.How…
Girl with the burning golden eyes,
I bring you gold and silver moonsAnd diamond stars, and mists that float.I bring you moons and snowy clouds,I bring you prairie skies to-nightTo feebly praise your golden eyesAnd red-bird song, and throat so white.
Would that in body and spirit Shakespeare came
With Justice still the genius of his rhyme,Giving each man his due, each passion grace,Impartial as the rain from Heaven’s faceOr sunshine from the heaven-enthroned sun.Sweet Swan of Avon, come to us again.Teach us to write, and writing, to be men.
Oh, saucy gold circle of fairyland silk—
A noose for my heart and a ring for my finger:—Here in my study you sing me a measure.Whimsy and song in my little gray study!Words out of wonderland, praising her fineness,Touched with her pulsating, delicate laughter,Saying, “The girl is all daring and kindness!”Saying, “Her soul is all feminine gameness,Trusting her insights, ardent for living;She…