Far up the lonely mountain-side
My wandering footsteps led;
The moss lay thick beneath my feet,
The pine sighed overhead.
The trace of a dismantled fort
Lay in the forest nave,
And in the shadow near my path
I saw a soldier's grave.

The bramble wrestled with the weed
Upon the lowly mound; —
The simple head-board, rudely writ,
Had rotted to the ground;
I raised it with a reverent hand,
From dust its words to clear,
But time had blotted all but these —
" A Georgia Volunteer! "

Far out in the hush of the mountain land
There lies the grave of a little child;
Unwept by heart and untended by hand—
Alone with the grass and the aspen wild.

It was years ago—so the story goes—
When the “Fifties” rang with the tales of gold,
That they laid her there, 'mid the falling snows,
To sleep alone in the damp and cold.

What mother sobbed with the pangs of woe,
What father grieved as he urged his teams,
Tradition tells not, and we only know
That the child is there in a land of dreams.

Far off, most secret, and inviolate Rose,
Enfold me in my hour of hours; where those
Who sought thee in the Holy Sepulchre,
Or in the wine vat, dwell beyond the stir
And tumult of defeated dreams; and deep
Among pale eyelids, heavy with the sleep
Men have named beauty. Thy great leaves enfold
The ancient beards, the helms of ruby and gold
Of the crowned Magi; and the king whose eyes
Saw the Pierced Hands and Rood of elder rise
In druid vapour and make the torches dim;
Till vain frenzy awoke and he died; and him

Far-off a young State rises, full of might:
I paint its brave escutcheon. Near at hand
See the log cabin in the rough clearing stand;
A woman by its door, with steadfast sight,
Trustful, looks Westward, where, uplifted bright,
Some city's Apparition, weird and grand,
In dazzling quiet fronts the lonely land,
With vast and marvelous structures wrought of light,
Motionless on the burning cloud afar: —
The haunting vision of a time to be,
After the heroic age is ended here,
Built on the boundless, still horizon's bar

Far in the land of sunny South,
Where brightly shines the sun,
Where foliage green, is ever seen,
Like to a northern spring begun,
A lithe and agile, ebon, youth,
With gladsome heart, in love and truth,
Is ling'ring with his plighted one.

One arm about her waist is twined —
One little hand he holds;
Her head at rest, upon his breast,
Is like a lambkin in the fold —
When fierce, the mountain wolf of gray,
Howls in the uplands, far away,
Of hunger, wretchedness, and cold.

" Yes honey, after we are wed,

Storm, park, and restless,
one preservation on the Hudson docks for
homosexuals hand in hand,
cornering the bar with leathered glances—
we are the boys who love.

Where are my lovers?
Penis and limp flesh,
city doves and pale sheets,
the shedding of denim and cotton briefs

The Village Cigar store at two a.m.
Light drooling on the street
and the alabaster adonis alone.

How warm is your sperm
like milk and beer and morning
beside your hardness.

Heaven sucks the angels

1. Far from our friends and country dear
2. Our foes insulting mock our grief,
In hostile lands we moan; No tender hand
And sport with our complaints; No mercy prompts
to wipe the tear Which flows with every groan!
to give relief, Though languid misery faints.

3. In retrospective scenes employed
We think on former days;
When peaceful sabbaths we enjoyed
And all our work was praise.

4. But now, of liberty deprived
In solitude confined;
In vain we seek the word of life
To lead the starving mind.

— Far beyond the sky-line, where the steamers go,
— There's a cool, green country, there's the land I know;
— Where the gray mist rises from the hidden pool,
— And the dew falls softly on the meadows cool.
When the exile's death has claimed me it is there my soul shall fly,
To the pleasant English country, when my time has come to die;
Where the west wind on the uplands echoes back the sea-bird's cry —
Oh! it's there my soul will hasten though it's here my bones must lie.

— From the many temples, tinkling bells ring clear,

Wonderful was the long secret night you gave me, my Lover,
Palm to palm, breast to breast in the gloom. The faint red lamp,
Flushing with magical shadows the common-place room of the inn,
With its dull impersonal furniture, kindled a mystic flame
In the heart of the swinging mirror, the glass that has seen
Faces innumerous & vague of the endless travelling automata,
Whirled down the ways of the world like dust-eddies swept through a street,
Faces indifferent or weary, frowns of impatience or pain,

Fanny Foo-Foo was a Japanese girl,
A child of the great Tycoon;
She wore her head bald, and her clothes were made
Half petticoat, half pantaloon;
And her face was the color of lemon peel,
And the shape of a tablespoon.

A handsome young chap was Johnny Hi-Hi;
He wore paper-muslin clothes;
His glossy black hair on the top of his head
In the shape of a shoe brush rose;
And his eyes slanted downward, as if some chap
Had savagely pulled his nose.

Fanny Foo-Foo loved Johnny Hi-Hi,
And when in the usual style