The flower-fed buffaloes of the sp… In the days of long ago, Ranged where the locomotives sing And the prarie flowers lie low: The tossing, blooming, perfumed gr…

My lady in her white silk shawl Is like a lily dim, Within the twilight of the room Enthroned and kind and prim. My lady! Pale gold is her hair.

[Supposed to be chanted to some… Chant we the story now Tho’ in a house we sleep; Tho’ by a hearth of coals Vigil to-night we keep.

On the road to nowhere What wild oats did you sow When you left your father’s house With your cheeks aglow? Eyes so strained and eager

Where now the huts are empty, Where never a camp-fire glows, In an abandoned cañon, A Gambler’s Ghost arose. He muttered there, “The moon’s a…

I was but a half-grown boy, You were a girl-child slight. Ah, how weary you were! You had led in the bullock-fight..… We slew the bullock at length

I. THE LION The Lion is a kingly beast. He likes a Hindu for a feast. And if no Hindu he can get, The lion-family is upset.

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…

The moon’s a gong, hung in the wil… Whose song the fays hold dear. Of course you do not hear it, chil… It takes a FAIRY ear. The full moon is a splendid gong

A Fantasy, dedicated to the little poet Alice Oliver Henderson, ten years old. The Fantasy shows how tiger-hearts are the cause of war in all ages. It shows how the mammoth forces ma...

I. THEIR BASIC SAVAGER… Fat black bucks in a wine-barrel r… Barrel-house kings, with feet unst… Sagged and reeled and pounded on t… A deep rolling bass.

(What the Mendicant Said ) The moon’s a monk, unmated, Who walks his cell, the sky. His strength is that of heaven-vow… Who all life’s flames defy.

(The poem shows the Master, wi… I heard Immanuel singing Within his own good lands, I saw him bend above his harp. I watched his wandering hands

The wide Pacific waters And the Atlantic meet. With cries of joy they mingle, In tides of love they greet. Above the drowned ages

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