It surely is a scalawag
A-scamping down the page.
A pretty little May-wind
The morning buds uncurling.
And then the white sweet Russian,
The dancer of the age.
Your pen’s the Queen of Sheba,
Such serious questions bringing,
That merry rascal Solomon
Would show a sober face:—
And then again Pavlova
To set our spirits singing,
The snowy-swan bacchante
All glamour, glee and grace.
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Your dust will be upon the wind
Though you be sealed in lead to-dayAmid the country’s tears.When this idyllic churchyardBecomes the heart of town,The place to build garage or inn,They’ll throw your tombstone down.Your name so dim, so long outworn,Your bones so near to earth,Your sturdy kindred dead and gone,How should men know your worth?So read upon the runic moonMan’s epitaph, deep-writ.It…
Factory windows are always broken.
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(A Poem Game.)
she came to prove him with hard questions.”[The men’s leader rises as he sees the Queen unveilingand approaching a position that gives her half of the stage.]Men’s Leader: The Queen of Sheba came to see King Solomon.[He bows three times.]I was King Solomon,I was King Solomon,I was King Solomon.[She bows three times.]Women’s Leader: I was…
Would I might wake St. Francis in you all,
Blinded with weeping for the sad and poor;Our wealth undone, all strict Franciscan men,Come, let us chant the canticle againOf mother earth and the enduring sun.God make each soul the lonely leper’s slave;God make us saints, and brave.
No doubt to-morrow I will hide
Let me rejoice this Sunday noon,And kneel while gray priests sing.It is not wisdom to forget.But since it is my fateFill thou my soul with hidden wineTo make this white hour great.My God, my God, this marvelous hourI am your son I know.Once in a thousand days your voiceHas laid temptation low.