Poems

Fame Is A Food That Dead Men Eat Fame is a food that dead men eat,– I have no stomach for such meat. In little light […]

For a Copy of Theocritus O SINGER of the field and fold, Theocritus! Pan’s pipe was thine,— Thine was the happier Age of Gold. For thee […]

In After Days IN after days when grasses high O’er-top the stone where I shall lie, Though ill or well the world adjust My slender claim […]

More Poets Yet! “More Poets yet!”–I hear him say, Arming his heavy hand to slay;– “Despite my skill and ‘swashing blow,” They seem to sprout where’er […]

O Fons Bandusae O BABBLING Spring, than glass more clear, Worthy of wreath and cup sincere, To-morrow shall a kid be thine With swelled and sprouting […]

On A Fan CHICKEN-SKIN, delicate, white, Painted by Carlo Vanloo, Loves in a riot of light, Roses and vaporous blue; Hark to the dainty frou-frou! Picture […]

On A Nankin Plate “Ah, me, but it might have been! Was there ever so dismal a fate?” — Quoth the little blue mandarin. “Such a […]

On the Future of Poetry Bards of the Future! you that come With striding march, and roll of drum, What will your newest challenge be To […]

On The Hurry Of This Time With slower pen men used to write, Of old, when “letters” were “polite”; In Anna’s, or in George’s days, They […]

Rondeau In after days when grasses high O’er-top the stone where I shall lie, Though ill or well the world adjust My slender claim to honour’d […]