shrill cicadas drum like rain—
my child can't catch up
with the wheelchair

Were it that you so shun me 'cause you wish
(Cruel'est) a fellow in your wretchednesse,
Or that you take some small ease in your owne
Torments, to heare another sadly groane,
I were most happy in my paines, to be
So truely blest, to be so curst by thee:
But Oh! my cries to that doe rather adde,
Of which too much already thou hast had,
And thou art gladly sad to heare my moane;
Yet sadly hearst me with derision.

Thou most unjust, that really dost know,
And feelst thy selfe the flames I burne in, Oh!
How can you beg to be set loose from that

This day of war and weariness
Will soon with me be done;
But thine, my child of love and joy,
Is only now begun.

Time's years of fever and unrest
Are nearly run for me;
But Life, with all its ill and good,
Is still in store for thee.

My flowers have faded, and my fruit
Is dropping from the tree;
The blossoms of the golden year
Are opening all on thee.

My harvest, with its gathered sheaves,
Is almost over now;
But thine is coming up, my child,
When I am lying low.

'Tis May, all May upon thy cheek,

Destined while living to sustain
An equal share of grief and pain,
All various ills of human race
Within this breast had once a place.
Without complaint she learned to bear
A living death, a long despair;
Till hard oppressed by adverse fate,
O'ercharged, she sunk beneath its weight;
And to this peaceful tomb retired,
So much esteemed, so long desired.
The painful mortal conflict o'er:
A broken heart can bleed no more!

The range's filled up with farmers and there's fences ev'rywhere.
A painted house 'most ev'ry quarter mile;
They're raisin' blooded cattle and plantin' sorted seed,
And puttin' on a painful lot o' style.

There hain't no grass to speak of and the water holes are gone,
The wire of the farmer holds 'em tight;
There's little use to law 'em and little use to kick,
And mighty sight less use there is to fight.

There's them coughin' separaters and their dirty, dusty crews,
And wagons runnin' over with the grain;

After life's departing sigh,
To the spots I loved most dearly,
In the sunshine and the shadow,
By the fountain welling clearly,
Through the wood and o'er the meadow,
Flit I like a butterfly.

There a gentle pair I spy.
Round the maiden's tresses flying,
From her chaplet I discover
All that I had lost in dying,
Still with her and with her lover.
Who so happy then as I?

For she smiles with laughing eye;
And his lips to hers he presses,
Vows of passion interchanging,
Stifling her with sweet caresses,
O'er her budding beauties ranging;

With fingers long and thin, a crooked crone
From frozen garbage dug a meaty bone.
A stranger, passing, saw the wretched dame,
And less in charity than human shame
He dropped a silver coin, in stealthy wise,
As if it might have fallen from the skies,
Upon the hand that shivered for the meat
Rejected from the board for dogs to eat.

As from his deed the blushing stranger ran,
Up rose the woman, with a visage wan;
Her grateful eyes sought heaven. God was there;—
He is a God who hears and answers prayer.

The month can never forget the year;
The moth can never forget the fire;
And I can never forget my dear
Lady of High Desire.

The earth can never forget the sun;
The day can never forget the night;
And I can never forget the one
Lady of My Delight.

When first the post arrived at my tent,
And brought the letters Rosamond had sent,
Think from his lips but what dear comfort came,
When in mine ear he softly breathed thy name.
Straight I enjoined him of thy health to tell,
Longing to hear my Rosamond did well;
With new inquiries then I cut him short,
When of the same he gladly would report,
That with the earnest haste my tongue oft trips,
Catching the words half spoke out of his lips:
This told, yet more I urge him to reveal,
To lose no time, whilst I unripped the seal.

Billy rode on a pinto horse—
Billy The Kid, I mean—
And he met Clyde Barrow riding
In a little gray machine.

Billy drew his bridle rein
And Barrow stopped his car,
And the dead man talked to the living man
Under the morning star.

Billy said to the Barrow boy,
“Is this the way you ride,
In a car that does its ninety per,
Machine guns at each side?”

“I only had my pinto horse
And my six-gun tried and true,
And I could shoot, but they got me at last,
And some day they'll get you!”

“For the men who live like you and me