#1912 #AmericanWriters #RhymesOfARollingStone
(France, August first, 1914) Far and near, high and clear, Hark to the call of War! Over the gorse and the golden dell… Ringing and swinging of clamorous…
The Princess was of ancient line, Of royal race was she; Like cameo her face was fine, With sad serentiy: Yet bent she toiled with dimming e…
My job is done; my rhymes are rank… My word-battalions marching verse… Here stanza-companies are none too… There print-platoons are weak, but… And as in marshalled order I revi…
I will not fight: though proud of… I hold no one worth striving with; And should resentment burn my brea… I deem that silence serves me best… So having not a word to say,
Oh darling Eric, why did you For my fond affection sue, And then with surgeons artful aid Transform yourself into a maid? So now in petticoats you go
In Wall Street once a potent powe… And now a multi—millionaire Alone within a shady bower In clothes his valet would not wea… He watches bird wings bright the a…
Just think! some night the stars w… Upon a cold, grey stone, And trace a name with silver beam, And lo! 'twill be your own. That night is speeding on to greet
A Belgian Priest—Soldier Speaks; GURR! You cochon! Stand and fig… Show your mettle! Snarl and bite! Spawn of an accursed race, Turn and meet me face to face!
Fearing that she might go one day With some fine fellow of her choic… I called her from her childish pla… And made a record of her voice. And now that she is truly gone,
To me at night the stars are vocal… They say: 'Your planet’s oh so lo… A speck of dust in heaven’s ceilin… Your faith divine a foolish feelin… What odds if you are chaos hurled,
What d’ye think, lad; what d’ye th… As the roaring crowds go by? As the banners flare and the brass… And the great guns rend the sky? As the women laugh like they’d all…
The aged Queen who passed away Had sixty servants, so they say; Twice sixty hands her shoes to tie… Two soapy ones have I. The old Queen had of beds a score…
I wanted the gold, and I sought i… I scrabbled and mucked like a slav… Was it famine or scurvy—I fought… I hurled my youth into a grave. I wanted the gold, and I got it—
Life, you’ve been mighty good to m… Yet here’s the end of the trail; No more mountain, moor and sea, No more saddle and sail. Waves a—leap in the laughing sun
Time, the Jester, jeers at you; Your life’s a fleeting breath; Your birthday’s flimsy I.O.U. To that old devil, Death. And though to glory you attain,