A modern verse-sequence, showing how a native American subject, strictly realistic, may be treated in various manners adapted to the requirements of different magazines, thus combining Art-for-Art's-Sake with Writing-for-the-Market. Read at the First Dinner of the American Periodical Publishers' Association, in Washington, April, 1904.
The clam that once, on Jersey's banks,
Was like the man who dug it, free,
Now slave-like thro' the market clanks
In chains of corporate tyranny.
The Standard Fish-Trust of New York
Holds every clam-bank in control;
And like base Beef and menial Pork,
The free-born Clam has lost its soul.
No more the bivalve treads the sands
In freedom's rapture, free from guilt:
It follows now the harsh commands
Of Morgiman and Rockabilt.
Rise, freemen, rise! Your wrath is just!
Call on the Sherman Act to dam
The floods of this devouring Trust,
And liberate the fettered Clam.
Not Dante when he wandered by the river Arno,
Not Burns who plowed the banks and braes of bonnie Ayr,
Not even Shakspere on the shores of Avon,—ah, no!
Not one of those great bards did taste true Poet's Fare.
But Whitman, loafing in Long Island and New Jersey,
Found there the sustenance of mighty ode and psalm,
And while his rude emotions swam around in verse, he
Fed chiefly on the wild, impassioned, sea-born clam.
Thus in his work we feel the waves' bewildering motion,
And winds from mighty mud-flats, weird and wild:
His clam-filled bosom answered to the voice of ocean,
And rose and fell responsively with every tide.
“Clam O! Fres' Clam!” How strange it sounds and sweet,
The Dago's cry along the New York street!
“Dago” we call him, like the thoughtless crowd;
And yet this humble man may well be proud
To hail from Petrarch's land, Boccaccio's home,—
Firenze, Gubbio, Venezia, Rome,—
From fair Italia, whose enchanted soil
Transforms the lowly cotton-seed to olive-oil.
To me his chant, with alien accent sung,
Brings back an echo of great Virgil's tongue:
It seems to cry against the city's woe,
In liquid Latin syllables,—Clamo!
As thro' the crowded street his cart he jams
And cries aloud, ah, think of more than clams!
Receive his secret plaint with pity warm,
And grant Italia's plea for Tenement-House Reform!
Fair Phyllis is another's bride:
Therefore I like to sit beside
Her at a very smart set dinner,
And whisper love, and try to win her.
The little-necks,—in number six,—
That from their pearly shells she picks
And swallows whole,—ah, is it selfish
To wish my heart among those shell-fish?
“But Phyllis is another's wife;
And if she should absorb thy life
'Twould leave thy bosom vacant.”—Well,
I'd keep at least the empty shell!
Low dost thou lie amid the languid ooze,
Because thy slothful spirit doth refuse
The bliss of battle and the strain of strife.
Rise, craven clam, and lead the strenuous life!
Some three-score years and ten ago
A prince was born at Florida, Mo.;
And though he came incognito,
With just the usual yells of woe,
The watchful fairies seemed to know
Precisely what the row meant;
For when he was but five days old,
(December fifth as I've been told,)
They pattered through the midnight cold,
And came around his crib, to hold
A “Council of Endowment.”
“I give him Wit,” the eldest said,
And stooped above the little bed,
To touch his forehead round and red.
“Within this bald, unfurnished head,
Where wild luxuriant locks shall spread
And wave in years hereafter,
I kindle now the lively spark,
That still shall flash by day and dark,
And everywhere he goes shall mark
His way with light and laughter.”
The fairies laughed to think of it
That such a rosy, wrinkled bit
Of flesh should be endowed with Wit!
But something serious seemed to hit
The mind of one, as if a fit
Of fear had come upon her.
“I give him Truth,” she quickly cried,
“That laughter may not lead aside
To paths where scorn and falsehood hide,—
I give him Truth and Honour!”
“I give him Love,” exclaimed the third;
And as she breathed the mystic word,
I know not if the baby heard,
But softly in his dream he stirred,
And twittered like a little bird,
And stretched his hands above him.
The fairy's gift was sealed and signed
With kisses twain the deed to bind:
“A heart of love to human-kind,
And human-kind to love him!”
“Now stay your giving!” cried the Queen.
“These gifts are passing rich I ween;
And if reporters should be mean
Enough to spy upon this scene,
'Twould make all other babies green
With envy at the rumour.
Yet since I love this child, forsooth,
I'll mix your gifts, Wit, Love and Truth,
With spirits of Immortal Youth,
And call the mixture Humour!”
The fairies vanished with their glittering train;
But here's the Prince with all their gifts,—Mark Twain.
Come all ye good Centurions and wise men of the times,
You've made a Poet Laureate, now you must hear his rhymes.
Extend your ears and I'll respond by shortening up my tale:—
Man cannot live by verse alone, he must have cakes and ale.
So while you wait for better things and muse on schnapps and salad,
I'll try my Pegasus his wings and sing a little ballad:
A legend of your ancestors, the Wise Men of the East,
Who brought among their baggage train a quaint and curious beast.
Their horses were both swift and strong, and we should think it lucky
If we could buy, by telephone, such horses from Kentucky;
Their dromedaries paced along, magnificent and large,
Their camels were as stately as if painted by La Farge.
But this amazing little ass was never satisfied,
He made more trouble every day than all the rest beside:
His ears were long, his legs were short, his eyes were bleared and dim,
But nothing in the wide, wide world was good enough for him.
He did not like the way they went, but lifted up his voice
And said that any other way would be a better choice.
He braced his feet and stood his ground, and made the wise men wait,
While with his heels at all around he did recalcitrate.
It mattered not how fair the land through which the road might run,
He found new causes for complaint with every Morning Sun:
And when the shades of twilight fell and all the world grew nappy,
They tied him to his Evening Post, but still he was not happy.
He thought his load was far too large, he thought his food was bad,
He thought the Star a poor affair, he thought the Wise Men mad:
He did not like to hear them laugh,—'twas childish to be jolly;
And if perchance they sang a hymn,—'twas sentimental folly!
So day by day this little beast performed his level best
To make their life, in work and play, a burden to the rest:
And when they laid them down at night, he would not let them sleep,
But criticized the Universe with hee-haws loud and deep.
One evening, as the Wise Men sat before their fire-lit tent,
And ate and drank and talked and sang, in grateful merriment,
The solemn donkey butted in, in his most solemn way,
And broke the happy meeting up with a portentous bray.
“Now by my head,” Balthazar said (his real name was Choate),
“We've had about enough of this! I'll put it to the vote.
I move the donkey be dismissed; let's turn him out to grass,
And travel on our cheerful way, without the solemn ass.”
The vote was aye! and with a whack the Wise Men drove him out;
But still he wanders up and down, and all the world about;
You'll know him by his long, sad face and supercilious ways,
And likewise by his morning kicks and by his evening brays.
But while we sit at Eagle Roost and make our Twelfth Night cheer,
Full well we know the solemn ass will not disturb us here:
For pleasure rules the roost to-night, by order of the King,
And every one must play his part, and laugh, and likewise sing.
The road of life is long, we know, and often hard to find,
And yet there's many a pleasant turn for men of cheerful mind:
We've done our day's work honestly, we've earned the right to rest,
We'll take a cup of friendship now and spice it with a jest.
A silent health to absent friends, their memories are bright!
A hearty health to all who keep the feast with us to-night!
A health to dear Centuria, oh, may she long abide!
A health, a health to all the world,—and the solemn ass, outside!
Among the earliest saints of old, before the first Hegira,
I find the one whose name we hold, St. Nicholas of Myra:
The best-beloved name, I guess, in sacred nomenclature,—
The patron-saint of helpfulness, and friendship, and good-nature.
A bishop and a preacher too, a famous theologian,
He stood against the Arian crew and fought them like a Trojan:
But when a poor man told his need and begged an alms in trouble,
He never asked about his creed, but quickly gave him double.
Three pretty maidens, so they say, were longing to be married;
But they were paupers, lack-a-day, and so the suitors tarried.
St. Nicholas gave each maid a purse of golden ducats chinking,
And then, for better or for worse, they wedded quick as winking.
Once, as he sailed, a storm arose; wild waves the ship surrounded;
The sailors wept and tore their clothes, and shrieked “We'll all be drownded!”
St. Nicholas never turned a hair; serenely shone his halo;
He simply said a little prayer, and all the billows lay low.
The wicked keeper of an inn had three small urchins taken,
And cut them up in a pickle-bin, and salted them for bacon.
St. Nicholas came and picked them out, and put their limbs together,—
They lived, they leaped, they gave a shout, “St. Nicholas forever!”
And thus it came to pass, you know, that maids without a nickel,
And sailor-lads when tempest blow, and children in a pickle,
And every man that's fatherly, and every kindly matron,
In choosing saints would all agree to call St. Nicholas patron.
He comes again at Christmas-time and stirs us up to giving;
He rings the merry bells that chime good-will to all the living;
He blesses every friendly deed and every free donation;
He sows the secret, golden seed of love through all creation.
Our fathers drank to Santa Claus, the sixth of each December,
And still we keep his feast because his virtues we remember.
Among the saintly ranks he stood, with smiling human features,
And said, “Be good! But not too good to love your fellow-creatures!”
December 6, 1907.
All hail, ye famous Farmers!
Ye vegetable-charmers,
Who know the art of making barren earth
Smile with prolific mirth
And bring forth twins or triplets at a birth!
Ye scientific fertilizers of the soil,
And horny-handed sons of toil!
To-night from all your arduous cares released,
With manly brows no longer sweat-impearled,
Ye hold your annual feast,
And like the Concord farmers long ago,
Ye meet above the “Bridge” below,
And draw the cork heard round the world!
What memories are yours! What tales
Of triumph have your tongues rehearsed,
Telling how ye have won your first
Potatoes from the stubborn mead,
(Almost as many as ye sowed for seed!)
And how the luscious cabbages and kails
Have bloomed before you in their bed
At seven dollars a head!
And how your onions took a prize
For bringing tears into the eyes
Of a hard-hearted cook! And how ye slew
The Dragon Cut-worm at a stroke!
And how ye broke,
Routed, and put to flight the horrid crew
Of vile potato-bugs and Hessian flies!
And how ye did not quail
Before th' invading armies of San José Scale,
But met them bravely with your little pail
Of poison, which ye put upon each tail
O' the dreadful beasts and made their courage fail!
And how ye did acquit yourselves like men
In fields of agricultural strife, and then,
Like generous warriors, sat you down at ease
And gently to your gardener said, “Let us have Pease!”
But were there Pease? Ah, no, dear Farmers, no!
The course of Nature is not ordered so.
For when we want a vegetable most,
She holds it back;
And when we boast
To our week-endly friends
Of what we'll give them on our farm, alack,
Those things the old dam, Nature, never sends.
O Pease in bottles, Sparrow-grass in jars,
How often have ye saved from scars
Of shame, and deep embarrassment,
The disingenuous farmer-gent,
To whom some wondering guest has cried,
“How do you raise such Pease and Sparrow-grass?”
Whereat the farmer-gent has not denied
The compliment, but smiling has replied,
“To raise such things you must have lots of glass.”
From wiles like these, true Farmers, hold aloof;
Accept no praise unless you have the proof.
If niggard Nature should withhold the green
And sugary Pea, welcome the humble Bean.
Even the easy Radish, and the Beet,
If grown by your own toil are extra sweet.
Let malefactors of great wealth and banker-felons
Rejoice in foreign artichokes, imported melons;
But you, my Farmers, at your frugal board
Spread forth the fare your Sabine Farms afford.
Say to Mæcenas, when he is your guest,
“No peaches! try this turnip, 'tis my best.”
Thus shall ye learn from labors in the field
What honesty a farmer's life may yield,
And like G. Washington in early youth,
Though cherries fail, produce a crop of truth.
But think me not too strict, O followers of the plough;
Some place for fiction in your lives I would allow.
In January when the world is drear,
And bills come in, and no results appear,
And snow-storms veil the skies,
And ice the streamlet clogs,
Then may you warm your heart with pleasant lies
And revel in the seedsmen's catalogues!
What visions and what dreams are these
Of cauliflower obese,—
Of giant celery, taller than a mast,—
Of strawberries
Like red pincushions, round and vast,—
Of succulent and spicy gumbo,—
Of cantaloupes, as big as Jumbo,—
Of high-strung beans without the strings,—
And of a host of other wild, romantic things!
Why, then, should Doctor Starr declare
That modern habits mental force impair?
And why should H. Marquand complain
That jokes as good as his will never come again?
And why should Bridges wear a gloomy mien
About the lack of fiction for his Magazine?
The seedsman's catalogue is all we need
To stir our dull imaginations
To new creations,
And lead us, by the hand
Of Hope, into a fairy-land.
So dream, my friendly Farmers, as you will;
And let your fancy all your garners fill
With wondrous crops; but always recollect
That Nature gives us less than we expect.
Scorn not the city where you earn the wealth
That, spent upon your farms, renews your health;
And tell your wife, whene'er the bills have shocked her,
“A country-place is cheaper than a doctor.”
May roses bloom for you, and may you find
Your richest harvest in a tranquil mind.
Oh, the angler's path is a very merry way,
And his road through the world is bright;
For he lives with the laughing stream all day,
And he lies by the fire at night.
Sing hey nonny, ho nonny
And likewise well-a-day!
The angler's life is a very jolly life
And that's what the anglers say!
Oh, the angler plays for the pleasure of the game,
And his creel may be full or light,
But the tale that he tells will be just the same
When he lies by the fire at night.
Sing hey nonny, ho nonny
And likewise well-a-day!
We love the fire and the music of the lyre,
And that's what the anglers say!
To the San Francisco Fly-Casting Club, April, 1913.
I never seen no “red gods”; I dunno wot's a “lure”;
But if it's sumpin' takin', then Spring has got it sure;
An' it doesn't need no Kiplins, ner yet no London Jacks,
To make up guff about it, w'ile settin' in their shacks.
It's sumpin' very simple 'at happens in the Spring,
But it changes all the lookin's of every blessed thing;
The buddin' woods look bigger, the mounting twice as high,
But the house looks kindo smaller, tho I couldn't tell ye why.
It's cur'ous wot a show-down the month of April makes,
Between the reely livin', an' the things 'at's only fakes!
Machines an' barns an' buildin's, they never give no sign;
But the livin' things look lively w'en Spring is on the line.
She doesn't come too suddin, ner she doesn't come too slow;
Her gaits is some cayprishus, an' the next ye never know,—
A single-foot o' sunshine, a buck o' snow er hail,—
But don't be disapp'inted, fer Spring ain't goin' ter fail.
She's loopin' down the hillside,—the driffs is fadin' out.
She's runnin' down the river,—d'ye see them risin' trout?
She's loafin' down the canyon,—the squaw-bed's growin' blue,
An' the teeny Johnny-jump-ups is jest a-peekin' thru.
A thousan' miles o' pine-trees, with Douglas firs between,
Is waitin' fer her fingers to freshen up their green;
With little tips o' brightness the firs 'ill sparkle thick,
An' every yaller pine-tree, a giant candle-stick!
The underbrush is risin' an' spreadin' all around,
Jest like a mist o' greenness 'at hangs above the ground;
A million manzanitas 'ill soon be full o' pink;
So saddle up, my sonny,—it's time to ride, I think!
We'll ford er swim the river, becos there ain't no bridge;
We'll foot the gulches careful, an' lope along the ridge;
We'll take the trail to Nowhere, an' travel till we tire,
An' camp beneath a pine-tree, an' sleep beside the fire.
We'll see the blue-quail chickens, an' hear 'em pipin' clear;
An' p'raps we'll sight a brown-bear, er else a bunch o' deer;
But nary a heathen goddess or god 'ill meet our eyes;
For why? There isn't any! They're jest a pack o' lies!
Oh, wot's the use o' “red gods,” an' “Pan,” an' all that stuff?
The natcheral facts o' Springtime is wonderful enuff!
An' if there's Someone made 'em, I guess He understood,
To be alive in Springtime would make a man feel good.
California, 1913.
Here's a half-a-dozen flies,
Just about the proper size
For the trout of Dickey's Run,—
Luck go with them every one!
Dainty little feathered beauties,
Listen now, and learn your duties:
Not to tangle in the box;
Not to catch on logs or rocks,
Boughs that wave or weeds that float,
Nor in the angler's “pants” or coat!
Not to lure the glutton frog
From his banquet in the bog;
Nor the lazy chub to fool,
Splashing idly round the pool;
Nor the sullen hornèd pout
From the mud to hustle out!
None of this vulgarian crew,
Dainty flies, is game for you.
Darting swiftly through the air
Guided by the angler's care,
Light upon the flowing stream
Like a wingèd fairy dream;
Float upon the water dancing,
Through the lights and shadows glancing,
Till the rippling current brings you,
And with quiet motion swings you,
Where a speckled beauty lies
Watching you with hungry eyes.
Here's your game and here's your prize!
Hover near him, lure him, tease him,
Do your very best to please him,
Dancing on the water foamy,
Like the frail and fair Salome,
Till the monarch yields at last;
Rises, and you have him fast!
Then remember well your duty,—
Do not lose, but land, your booty;
For the finest fish of all is
Salvelinus Fontinalis.
So, you plumed illusions, go,
Let my comrade Archie know
Every day he goes a-fishing
I'll be with him in well-wishing.
Most of all when lunch is laid
In the dappled orchard shade,
With Will, Corinne, and Dixie too,
Sitting as we used to do
Round the white cloth on the grass
While the lazy hours pass,
And the brook's contented tune
Lulls the sleepy afternoon,—
Then's the time my heart will be
With that pleasant company!
June 17, 1913.
| A deeper crimson in the rose, | 255 |
| A fir-tree standeth lonely | 197 |
| A flawless cup: how delicate and fine | 269 |
| A little fir grew in the midst of the wood | 147 |
| A mocking question! Britain's answer came | 371 |
| A silent world,—yet full of vital joy | 101 |
| A silken curtain veils the skies, | 46 |
| A tear that trembles for a little while | 4 |
| Across a thousand miles of sea, a hundred leagues of land, | 187 |
| Afterthought of summer's bloom! | 35 |
| Ah, who will tell me, in these leaden days, | 47 |
| All along the Brazos River, | 337 |
| All day long in the city's canyon-street, | 352 |
| All hail, ye famous Farmers! | 565 |
| All night long, by a distant bell | 251 |
| All the trees are sleeping, all the winds are still, | 244 |
| Among the earliest saints of old, before the first Hegira, | 562 |
| At dawn in silence moves the mighty stream, | 6 |
| At sunset, when the rosy light was dying | 13 |
| Children of the elemental mother, | 299 |
| “Clam O! Fres' Clam!” How strange it sounds and sweet, | 553 |
| Come all ye good Centurions and wise men of the times, | 558 |
| Come, give me back my life again, you heavy-handed Death! | 120 |
| Come home, my love, come home! | 209 |
| Could every time-worn heart but see Thee once again, | 230 |
| Count not the cost of honour to the dead! | 311 |
| Daughter of Psyche, pledge of that wild night | 447 |
| Dear Aldrich, now November's mellow days | 437 |
| Dear to my heart are the ancestral dwellings of America, | 289 |
| Deeds not Words: I say so too! | 276 |
| Deep in the heart of the forest the lily of Yorrow is growing; | 27 |
| “Do you give thanks for this?—or that?” No, God be thanked | 224 |
| Do you remember, father,— | 24 |
| Does the snow fall at sea? | 16 |
| Ere thou sleepest gently lay | 239 |
| Fair Phyllis is another's bride: | 554 |
| Fair Roslin Chapel, how divine | 17 |
| Far richer than a thornless rose | 280 |
| Flowers rejoice when night is done, | 9 |
| For that thy face is fair I love thee not: | 172 |
| Four things a man must learn to do | 277 |
| From the misty shores of midnight, touched with splendours of the moon, | 429 |
| Furl your sail, my little boatie: | 218 |
| Give us a name to fill the mind | 385 |
| Glory of architect, glory of painter, and sculptor, and bard, | 464 |
| God said, “I am tired of kings,”— | 376 |
| Great Nature had a million words, | 466 |
| Hear a word that Jesus spake | 83 |
| Heart of France for a hundred years, | 431 |
| Her eyes are like the evening air, | 186 |
| Here's a half-a-dozen flies, | 574 |
| Here the great heart of France, | 418 |
| Home, for my heart still calls me: | 397 |
| Honour the brave who sleep | 157 |
| Hours fly, | 259 |
| How blind the toil that burrows like the mole, | 428 |
| “How can I tell,” Sir Edmund said, | 158 |
| How long is the night, brother, | 185 |
| How long the echoes love to play | 3 |
| I count that friendship little worth | 223 |
| I envy every flower that blows | 179 |
| I have no joy in strife, | 401 |
| I love thine inland seas, | 288 |
| I never seen no “red gods”; I dunno wot's a “lure”; | 571 |
| I never thought again to hear | 395 |
| I put my heart to school | 45 |
| I read within a poet's book | 217 |
| I think of thee when golden sunbeams glimmer | 196 |
| I would not even ask my heart to say | 287 |
| If all the skies were sunshine, | 12 |
| If I have erred in showing all my heart, | 192 |
| If Might made Right, life were a wild-beasts' cage: | 377 |
| If on the closed curtain of my sight | 242 |
| In a great land, a new land, a land full of labour and riches and confusion, | 434 |
| In mirth he mocks the other birds at noon, | 269 |
| In robes of Tynan blue the King was drest, | 142 |
| In the blue heaven the clouds will come and go, | 417 |
| In the pleasant time of Pentecost, | 369 |
| Into the dust of the making of man, | 316 |
| In warlike pomp, with banners flowing, | 14 |
| It pleased the Lord of Angels (praise His name!) | 125 |
| It's little I can tell | 173 |
| It was my lot of late to travel far | 412 |
| “Joy is a Duty,”—so with golden lore | 274 |
| Joyful, joyful, we adore Thee, | 232 |
| Just to give up, and trust | 231 |
| Knight-Errant of the Never-ending Quest, | 427 |
| Let me but do my work from day to day, | 166 |
| Let me but feel thy look's embrace, | 177 |
| “Lights out” along the land, | 374 |
| Like a long arrow through the dark the train is darting, | 180 |
| Limber-limbed, lazy god, stretched on the rock, | 270 |
| Lord Jesus, Thou hast known | 220 |
| Long ago Apollo called to Aristæus, youngest of the shepherds, | 129 |
| Long had I loved this “Attic shape,” the brede | 268 |
| Long, long ago I heard a little song, | 249 |
| Long, long, long the trail | 55 |
| Lover of beauty, walking on the height | 423 |
| Low dost thou lie amid the languid ooze, | 554 |
| March on, my soul, nor like a laggard stay! | 234 |
| Mother of all the high-strung poets and singers departed, | 421 |
| Not Dante when he wandered by the river Arno, | 552 |
| Not to the swift, the race: | 169 |
| Now in the oak the sap of life is welling, | 51 |
| O dark the night and dim the day | 402 |
| O garden isle, beloved by Sun and Sea, | 308 |
| O Lord our God, Thy mighty hand | 364 |
| O mighty river! strong, eternal Will, | 277 |
| O Mother mountains! billowing far to the snow-lands, | 59 |
| O Music hast thou only heard | 378 |
| O who will walk a mile with me | 165 |
| O wonderful! How liquid clear | 57 |
| O youngest of the giant brood | 304 |
| Oh, gallantly they fared forth in khaki and in blue, | 408 |
| Oh, quick to feel the lightest touch | 439 |
| Oh, the angler's path is a very merry way, | 570 |
| Oh, was I born too soon, my dear, or were you born too late, | 175 |
| Oh, what do you know of the song, my dear, | 467 |
| Oh, why are you shining so bright, big Sun, | 188 |
| Once, only once, I saw it clear,— | 189 |
| One sail in sight upon the lonely sea, | 292 |
| Only a little shrivelled seed, | 224 |
| Peace without Justice is a low estate,— | 377 |
| Read here, O friend unknown, | 278 |
| Remember, when the timid light | 194 |
| Saints are God's flowers, fragrant souls | 226 |
| Self is the only prison that can ever bind the soul: | 275 |
| Ship after ship, and every one with a high-resounding name, | 410 |
| Sign of the Love Divine | 405 |
| Some three-score years and ten ago | 555 |
| Soul of a soldier in a poet's frame, | 442 |
| Stand back, ye messengers of mercy! Stand | 306 |
| Stand fast, Great Britain! | 372 |
| The British bard who looked on Eton's walls, | 330 |
| The clam that once, on Jersey's banks, | 551 |
| The cornerstone in Truth is laid, | 261 |
| The cradle I have made for thee | 198 |
| The day returns by which we date our years: | 253 |
| The fire of love was burning, yet so low | 243 |
| The gabled roofs of old Malines | 381 |
| The glory of ships is an old, old song, | 388 |
| The grief that is but feigning, | 443 |
| The heavenly hills of Holland,— | 67 |
| The laggard winter ebbed so slow | 69 |
| The land was broken in despair, | 309 |
| The melancholy gift Aurora gained | 426 |
| The moonbeams over Arno's vale in silver flood were pouring, | 29 |
| The mountains that inclose the vale | 170 |
| The nymphs a shepherd took | 270 |
| The other night I had a dream, most clear | 137 |
| The record of a faith sublime, | 430 |
| The river of dreams runs quietly down | 210 |
| The roar of the city is low, | 301 |
| The rough expanse of democratic sea | 404 |
| The shadow by my finger cast | 263 |
| The tide, flows in to the harbour,— | 58 |
| The time will come when I no more can play | 468 |
| The winds of war-news change and veer: | 399 |
| The worlds in which we live at heart are one, | 274 |
| There are many kinds of anger, as many kinds of fire: | 400 |
| There are many kinds of love, as many kinds of light, | 276 |
| There are songs for the morning and songs for the night, | 53 |
| There is a bird I know so well, | 31 |
| They tell me thou art rich, my country: gold | 387 |
| This is the soldier brave enough to tell | 313 |
| This is the window's message, | 260 |
| Thou warden of the western gate, above Manhattan Bay, | 393 |
| Thou who hast made thy dwelling fair | 71 |
| “Through many a land your journey ran, | 182 |
| 'Tis fine to see the Old World, and travel up and down | 314 |
| To thee, plain hero of a rugged race, | 312 |
| Two dwellings, Peace, are thine | 235 |
| Two hundred years of blessing I record | 263 |
| “Two things,” the wise man said, “fill me with awe: | 266 |
| 'Twas far away and long ago, | 174 |
| Under the cloud of world-wide war, | 406 |
| Waking from tender sleep, | 248 |
| We men that go down for a livin' in ships to the sea,— | 151 |
| We met on Nature's stage, | 268 |
| What hast thou done, O womanhood of France, | 384 |
| What is Fortune, what is Fame? | 279 |
| What makes the lingering Night so cling to thee? | 61 |
| What shall I give for thee, | 229 |
| What time the rose of dawn is laid across the lips of night, | 37 |
| When down the stair at morning | 178 |
| When May bedecks the naked trees | 33 |
| When Stävoren town was in its prime | 159 |
| When the frosty kiss of Autumn in the dark | 246 |
| When tulips bloom in Union Square, | 21 |
| When to the garden of untroubled thought | 171 |
| Where's your kingdom, little king? | 41 |
| Who knows how many thousand years ago | 281 |
| Who seeks for heaven alone to save his soul, | 275 |
| Who watched the worn-out Winter die? | 10 |
| Winter on Mount Shasta, | 470 |
| With eager heart and will on fire, | 225 |
| With memories old and wishes new | 264 |
| With two bright eyes, my star, my love | 271 |
| Wordsworth, thy music like a river rolls | 425 |
| Ye gods of battle, lords of fear, | 362 |
| Yes, it was like you to forget, | 183 |
| You dare to say with perjured lips, | 391 |
| You only promised me a single hour: | 193 |
| Yours is a garden of old-fashioned flowers; | 441 |