Twelve fleeting years ago my Myrt… (Ehu fugaces! maybe more) I wrote of the directoire skirt You wore. Ten years ago, Myrtilla mine,

Horace: Book IV, Ode 11 “Est mihi nonum superantis annum—” Phyllis, I’ve a jar of wine, (Alban, B.C. 49) Parsley wreathes, and, for your tr…

We were very tired, we were very m… We had gone back and forth all nig… It was bare and bright, and smelle… But we looked into a fire, we lean… We lay on a hilltop underneath the…

I rise and applaud, in the patriot… Whenever (as often) I hear The palpitanat strains of “The St… I shout and cheer. And also, to show my unbound devot…

For something like eleven summers I’ve written things that aimed to… Our careless mealy-mouthéd mummers To be more sedulous of speech. So sloppy of articulation

Propertius: Elegy VIII, Part 1 “Tune igitur demens nec te mea cur… O Cynthia, hast thou lost thy min… Have I no claim on thine affectio… Dost love the chill Illyrian wind

I thought that I was wholly free, That I had Love upon the shelf; “Hereafter,” I declared in glee, “I’ll have my evenings to myself.” How can such mortal beauty live?

(Harvard’s prestige in football is a leading factor. The best players in the leading preparatory schools prefer to study at Cambridge, where they can earn fame on the gridiron. They do ...

When first I doffed my olive drab… I thought, delightfully though mut… “Henceforth I shall have pleasure… Solutely.” Dull with the drudgery of war,

As neat as wax, as good as new, As true as steel, as truth is true… Good as a sermon, keen as hate, Full as a tick, and fixed as fate— Brief as a dream, long as the day,

A quatrain fills a little space, Although it’s pretty small, And oftentimes, as in this case, It has no point at all.

Horace: Book I, Ode 23 “Vitas hinnuleo me similis, Chloë… Why shun me, my Chloë«? Nor pisto… Is mine with intention to kill. And yet like a llama you run to yo…

What time I read your mighty line… O Mr. Q. Horatius Flaccus, In praise of many an ancient wine— You twanged a wickid lyric to Bac… I wondered, like a Yankee hick,

INSPIRED BY READING M… PRINTED IN THE NEW YOR… Though earnest and industrious, I still am unillustrious; No papers empty purses

There was a man in our town who ha… He gave away his millions to the c… And people cried: “The hypocrite!… The ones who really need him are t… When Andrew Croesus built a home…