I sang me a song, a tiny song,
A song that was sweet to my soul,
And set it a-float on the sea of chance
In search of a happy goal.
I said to my song: "Go on, go on
And lodge in a tender spot
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Classics
'Tis strange indeed to hear us plead
For selling and for buying
When yesterday we said: "Away
With all good things but dying."
The world's ago, and we're agog
To have our first brief inning;
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"Madam," said the negro principal of a public school to an old negro woman who was washing, "I wish your boy to attend my school."
"Whose boy?" asked the old woman as she straightened up and
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The Jackal and the Lion were hunting in the jungle. "Brother Lion," said the Jackal, "the young elephant we seek is a good distance away. Well, it is not so far away either, but you see it will run ... [+]
Again, as always, when the shadows fall, In that sweet space between the dark and day, I leave the present and its fretful claims And seek the dim past where my memories stay. I dream an old ... [+]
On summer afternoons I sit
Quiescent by you in the park
And idly watch the sunbeams gild
And tint the ash-trees' bark.
Or else I watch the squirrels frisk
And chaffer in the grassy
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Oh! for the welcome breath of country air, With Summer skies and flowers, To shout and feel once more the halcyon Of gayer boyhood hours I think the sight of fields and shady lanes Would ease my ... [+]
The sun went down in beauty Beyond the Mississippi side, As I stood on the banks of the river And watched its waters glide; Its swelling currents resembling The longing restless soul, Surging ... [+]
All Nashville is a-chill! And everywhere,
As wind-swept sands upon the deserts blow,
There is, each moment, sifted through the air,
A powered blast of January snow.
O thoughtless
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The full September moon sheds floods of light,
And all the bayou's face is gemmed with stars,
Save where are dropped fantastic shadows down
From sycamores and moss-hung cypress trees.
With
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All night they whine upon their ropes and boom
against the dock with helpless prows:
these little ships that are too worn for sailing
front the wharf but do not rest at all.
Tugging at the
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Poplars are standing there still as death
And ghosts of dead men
Meet their ladies walking
Two by two beneath the shade
And standing on the marble steps.
There is a sound of music
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