I. A NEGRO SERMON:—SI… (To be read in your own variety… Legree’s big house was white and g… His cotton-fields were the best to… He had strong horses and opulent c…

The moon is now an opening flower, The sky a cliff of blue. The moon is now a silver rose; Her pollen is the dew. Her pollen is the mist that swings

Incense and Splendor haunt me as… Though my good works have been, al… Though I do naught, High Heaven… And future ages pass in tall revie… I see the years to come as armies…

The Youth speaks: - “Why do you seek the sun In your bubble-crown ascending? Your chariot will melt to mist. Your crown will have an ending.”

Old Euclid drew a circle On a sand-beach long ago. He bounded and enclosed it With angles thus and so. His set of solemn greybeards

Why do I see these empty boats, s… One haunted me the whole night lon… Returning always near the eaves, o… There it will wait me many weeks,… Each soul is haunted by a ship in…

In which he is remembered in simil… the king’s jester, who died when H… Yorick is dead. Boy Hamlet walks… Beneath the battlements of Elsino… Where are those oddities and caper…

MOVING-PICTURE ACTRESS (On hearing she was leaving the… Mary Pickford, doll divine, Year by year, and every day At the movmg-picture play,

And must the Senator from Illinoi… Be this squat thing, with blinking… This brazen gutter idol, reared to… Upon a leering pyramid of lies? And must the Senator from Illinoi…

Sleep softly... eagle forgotten...… Time has its way with you there, a… “We have buried him now,” thought… They made a brave show of their mo… They had snarled at you, barked at…

O dandelion, rich and haughty, King of village flowers! Each day is coronation time, You have no humble hours. I like to see you bring a troop

WRITTEN FOR LORADO… To be given in the manner of th… Hawk of the Rocks, Yours is our cause to-day. Watching your foes

Your dust will be upon the wind Within some certain years, Though you be sealed in lead to-da… Amid the country’s tears. When this idyllic churchyard

O you who lose the art of hope, Whose temples seem to shrine a lie… Whose sidewalks are but stones of… Who weep that Liberty must die, Turn to the little prairie towns,

The moon is but a golden skull, She mounts the heavens now, And Moon-Worms, mighty Moon-Worm… Are wreathed around her brow. The Moon-Worms are a doughty race…