O mighty men and conquerors of renown,
Heroes Homeric, English souls of note,
For whom our sapient trusty rulers vote
Rewards in wealth, and whom the people crown
With adulation in the decked-out town
Through which ye ride while the gay banners float
From roof and window,—what if red War smote
No more the veldt, but English field and down?

Three years to conquer one small race ye took,
Yet England deemed you worthy of high fame
And payed with gold the path by which ye came
Homeward, with ringing rein and jocund look!

Many folks are in a snit
They say the new poetry's not a kick
They pout and pester from academic writing posts
About emotions turned into ghosts of ghosts

Hejinian, Silliman—the tide is over
Andrews, McCaffery—abandon your mowers
You're before your time then out of date
It's not market forces nor fate

A friend of mine named Edith Jarolim
Told me a story from before meats were frozen
Seems her mother's uncle kept the beef supplied
To the distinguished family of Sig Freud's bride

Frau Freud kept kosher, so Sigi too

Reduce this lady unto marble quickly,
Ray her beauty on a glassy plate,
Rhyme her youth as fast as the granite,
Take her where she trembles, and do not wait,
For now in funeral white they lead her
And crown her queen of the House of No Love:
A dirge, then, for her beauty, Musicians!
Ye harping the springe that catches the dove.

I am the little New Year, ho, ho!
Here I come tripping it over the snow.
Shaking my bells with a merry din—
So open your doors and let me in!

Presents I bring for each and all—
Big folks, little folks, short and tall;
Each one from me a treasure may win—
So open your doors and let me in!

Some shall have silver and some shall have gold,
Some shall have new clothes and some shall have old;
Some shall have brass and some shall have tin—
So open your doors and let me in!

Some shall have water and some shall have milk,

I never hear it ring without
—A creepy little thrill
Expectant of some possible
—Adventure, good or ill.

It may be just a friend who comes
—To have a cup of tea;
It may be just a letter's old
—Familiar mystery.

It may be one who comes to sell
—Some queer, unwanted thing;
Or one who brings the latest news
—Of war and uncrowned king.

It may be just these happenings
—Of every-day, but still
I never hear it ring without
—That funny little thrill.

I never hear it ring without
—A creepy little thrill
Expectant of some possible

Good morning Miss Lady Cow—what at these hours
Not up Ive been playing an hour with the flowers
But the Bell Flower is such a sweet cottage tis true
I could sleep int as long if Id nothing to do
Indeed Mr Bee I have had such a fright
Ive neer got a wink of sleep since all the night
I have dreamed such a dream that I hate the lone wood
& soon as Im up I will leave it for good
Indeed you look ill so Miss lady cow do
Take a drop from my bag ere the tale you pursue
Twill strengthen your spirits & sweeten your dread

Thy birth-day morn, how lovely
It dawns upon the eye!
It bids thee awake from slumber
To view the laughing sky.

The golden sun is rising
Majestic o'er the sea,
And nature seems to whisper
Of happiness to thee.

Thy birth-day morn, within thee
What fond emotions swell;
Thy thoughts are in a distant land,
Where friends and kindred dwell.

The mighty deep's between you,
But it can never part
One link in love's bright fetter,
That binds you heart to heart.

Thy birth-day morn—I bring thee
From her Elysian bowers,

The woodbine bower—a summer night—
By the window our seat as it used to be—
The moon arose with her balmy light—
But like ghosts from the grave were I and she.

Since we last sat thus—the scene the same—
Twelve years had passed: ah, time had sped!
The tender glow, the consuming flame,
Had sunk to ashes cold and dead.

The chattering woman raked about,
While I sat with hardly a word to say,
In those ashes of love so long gone out,
But revived no spark—they were cold and grey.

She told me a long and wearisome tale—

And with that thought came an impulse
Which broke the dreamy spell
For no longer on the picture
Could her eye endure to dwell
She vowed to leave her visions
And seek life's arousing stir
For she knew Sir William's slumber
Would not bring a thought of her

How fruitless then to ponder
O'er such dreams as chained her now
Her heart should cease to wander
And her tears no more should flow
The trance was over—over
The spell was scattered far
Yet how blessed were she whose lover
Would be Angria's young Hussar!

Some love the matin-chimes, which tell
The hour of prayer to sinner:
But better far's the mid-day bell,
Which speaks the hour of dinner;
For when I see a smoking fish,
Or capon drown'd in gravy,
Or noble haunch on silver dish,
Full glad I sing my Ave

My pulpit is an alehouse bench,
Whereon I sit so jolly;
A smiling rosy country wench
My saint and patron holy
I kiss her cheek so red and sleek,
I press her ringlets wavy,
And in her willing ear I speak
A most religious Ave

And if I'm blind, yet Heaven is kind,