The Traveller-Heart
(To a Man who maintained that the Mausoleum is the Stateliest Possible Manner of Interment) I would be one with the dark, dark earth:—
Follow the plough with a yokel tread.
Read Poem Follow the plough with a yokel tread.
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The Eagle That Is Forgotten
(John P. Altgeld, Governor of Illinois and my next-door neighbor, 1893-1897. Born December 30, 1847; died March 12, 1902.) Sleep softly . . . eagle forgotten . . . under the stone.
Time has its way with you there, and the clay has its own.
Read Poem Time has its way with you there, and the clay has its own.
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Lincoln
Would I might rouse the Lincoln in you all,
That which is gendered in the wilderness
From lonely prairies and God’s tenderness.
Imperial soul, star of a weedy stream,
Born where the ghosts of buffaloes still dream,
Whose spirit hoof-beats storm above his grave,
Above that breast of earth and prairie-fire—
Fire that freed the slave.
Read Poem That which is gendered in the wilderness
From lonely prairies and God’s tenderness.
Imperial soul, star of a weedy stream,
Born where the ghosts of buffaloes still dream,
Whose spirit hoof-beats storm above his grave,
Above that breast of earth and prairie-fire—
Fire that freed the slave.
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Why I Voted the Socialist Ticket
I am unjust, but I can strive for justice.
My life’s unkind, but I can vote for kindness.
I, the unloving, say life should be lovely.
I, that am blind, cry out against my blindness.
Man is a curious brute—he pets his fancies—
Fighting mankind, to win sweet luxury.
So he will be, though law be clear as crystal,
Tho’ all men plan to live in harmony.
Read Poem My life’s unkind, but I can vote for kindness.
I, the unloving, say life should be lovely.
I, that am blind, cry out against my blindness.
Man is a curious brute—he pets his fancies—
Fighting mankind, to win sweet luxury.
So he will be, though law be clear as crystal,
Tho’ all men plan to live in harmony.
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General William Booth Enters into Heaven
[To be sung to the tune of The Blood of the Lamb with indicated instrument] [BASS DRUM BEATEN LOUDLY]
Booth led boldly with his big bass drum—
Read Poem Booth led boldly with his big bass drum—
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The Spider and the Ghost of the Fly
Once I loved a spider
When I was born a fly,
A velvet-footed spider
With a gown of rainbow-dye.
She ate my wings and gloated.
She bound me with a hair.
She drove me to her parlor
Above her winding stair.
Read Poem When I was born a fly,
A velvet-footed spider
With a gown of rainbow-dye.
She ate my wings and gloated.
She bound me with a hair.
She drove me to her parlor
Above her winding stair.
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Davy Jones' Door-Bell
A Chant for Boys with Manly Voices
(Every line sung one step deeper than the line preceding) Any sky-bird sings,
Ring, ring!
Read Poem (Every line sung one step deeper than the line preceding) Any sky-bird sings,
Ring, ring!
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The Horrid Voice of Science
"There's machinery in the butterfly;
There's a mainspring to the bee;
There's hydraulics to a daisy,
And contraptions to a tree.
"If we could see the birdie
That makes the chirping sound
With x-ray, scientific eyes,
Read Poem There's a mainspring to the bee;
There's hydraulics to a daisy,
And contraptions to a tree.
"If we could see the birdie
That makes the chirping sound
With x-ray, scientific eyes,
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Kalamazoo
Once, in the city of Kalamazoo,
The gods went walking, two and two,
With the friendly phoenix, the stars of Orion,
The speaking pony and singing lion.
For in Kalamazoo in a cottage apart
Lived the girl with the innocent heart.
Thenceforth the city of Kalamazoo
Was the envied, intimate chum of the sun.
He rose from a cave by the principal street.
The lions sang, the dawn-horns blew,
And the ponies danced on silver feet.
He hurled his clouds of love around;
Deathless colors of his old heart
Draped the houses and dyed the ground.
Read Poem The gods went walking, two and two,
With the friendly phoenix, the stars of Orion,
The speaking pony and singing lion.
For in Kalamazoo in a cottage apart
Lived the girl with the innocent heart.
Thenceforth the city of Kalamazoo
Was the envied, intimate chum of the sun.
He rose from a cave by the principal street.
The lions sang, the dawn-horns blew,
And the ponies danced on silver feet.
He hurled his clouds of love around;
Deathless colors of his old heart
Draped the houses and dyed the ground.
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What the Rattlesnake Said
The Moon's a little prairie-dog.
He shivers through the night.
He sits upon his hill and cries
For fear that I will bite.
The Sun's a broncho.He's afraid
Like every other thing,
And trembles morning, noon and night
Lest I should spring and sting.
Read Poem He shivers through the night.
He sits upon his hill and cries
For fear that I will bite.
The Sun's a broncho.He's afraid
Like every other thing,
And trembles morning, noon and night
Lest I should spring and sting.
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Abraham Lincoln Walks at Midnight
(In Springfield, Illinois) It is portentous, and a thing of state
That here at midnight, in our little town
Read Poem That here at midnight, in our little town
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At Mass
No doubt to-morrow I will hide
My face from you, my King.
Let me rejoice this Sunday noon,
And kneel while gray priests sing.
It is not wisdom to forget.
But since it is my fate
Fill thou my soul with hidden wine
To make this white hour great.
My God, my God, this marvelous hour
I am your son I know.
Once in a thousand days your voice
Has laid temptation low.
Read Poem My face from you, my King.
Let me rejoice this Sunday noon,
And kneel while gray priests sing.
It is not wisdom to forget.
But since it is my fate
Fill thou my soul with hidden wine
To make this white hour great.
My God, my God, this marvelous hour
I am your son I know.
Once in a thousand days your voice
Has laid temptation low.
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In Memory of a Child
I
The angels guide him now,
And watch his curly head,
And lead him in their games,
The little boy we led.
II
He cannot come to harm,
He knows more than we know,
His light is brighter far
Than daytime here below.
III
His path leads on and on,
Through pleasant lawns and flowers,
Read Poem The angels guide him now,
And watch his curly head,
And lead him in their games,
The little boy we led.
II
He cannot come to harm,
He knows more than we know,
His light is brighter far
Than daytime here below.
III
His path leads on and on,
Through pleasant lawns and flowers,
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The Little Turtle
There was a little turtle.
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.
Read Poem 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.
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Two Old Crows
Two old crows sat on a fence rail.
Two old crows sat on a fence rail,
Thinking of effect and cause,
Of weeds and flowers,
And nature's laws.
One of them muttered, one of them stuttered,
One of them stuttered, one of them muttered.
Each of them thought far more than he uttered.
One crow asked the other crow a riddle.
One crow asked the other crow a riddle:
The muttering crow
Asked the stuttering crow,
“Why does a bee have a sword to his fiddle?
Why does a bee have a sword to his fiddle?”
“Bee-cause,” said the other crow,
Read Poem Two old crows sat on a fence rail,
Thinking of effect and cause,
Of weeds and flowers,
And nature's laws.
One of them muttered, one of them stuttered,
One of them stuttered, one of them muttered.
Each of them thought far more than he uttered.
One crow asked the other crow a riddle.
One crow asked the other crow a riddle:
The muttering crow
Asked the stuttering crow,
“Why does a bee have a sword to his fiddle?
Why does a bee have a sword to his fiddle?”
“Bee-cause,” said the other crow,
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What the Sexton Said
Your dust will be upon the wind
Within some certain years,
Though you be sealed in lead to-day
Amid the country’s tears.
When this idyllic churchyard
Becomes 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?
Read Poem Within some certain years,
Though you be sealed in lead to-day
Amid the country’s tears.
When this idyllic churchyard
Becomes 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?
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