I GOTTER overcoat, I have! A real one, an' brand new,
My ma, she buyed it at a store; it's color is dark blue,
An' it's got buttons made of gold, 'at shine jest like th' sun
'N I can wear it every day. O, gee! But I have fun!
Ma got it all fer me — and it
Ain't brother Bob's " cut down to fit. "

I gotter overcoat, I have. It 's warm as any toast,
I wear it when I go to school, and when I skate or coast;
'N all the other boys, they say, " O, lookee, here comes Jim —
He 's gotter overcoat that fits — it must feel strange to him! "

I've decked the tops of flying cars
That leaped across the night;
The long and level coaches skimmed
Low, like a swallow's flight.

Close to the sleet-bit blinds I've clung
Rocking on and on;
All night I've crouched in empty cars
That rode into the dawn,

Seeing the ravelled edge of life
In jails, on rolling freights
And learning rough and ready ways
From rough and ready mates.

( THE LITTLE INVALID'S CONFESSION )

M Y head hurts orful bad, and when I lay
Flat down in bed, and see the birds and sky,
I wisht that I could run out doors and play —
Or leave my body here and fly — and fly!
I gotter pain 'most every place what is,
And when I try to set up, somethin' goes
Jest like a pin-wheel in my head — sizz! — sizz! —
And I kin feel it clear down to my toes.
Yet bein' sick is not so bad, someways —
Nobody has said, — Do n't! — to me for days!

Ma moves around the room jest like an elf,

Her life was dwarfed, and wed to blight,
Her very days were shades of night,
Her every dream was born entombed,
Her soul, a bud, — that never bloomed.

Walk within thy own heart's temple, child, and rest,
What you seek abides forever in thy breast,
Closer than thy folded arm
Is the soul-renewing-balm,
Walk within thy own heart's temple, child, and rest.

Oh, my fancy teems with a world of dreams, —
They revolve in a glittering fire,
How they twirl and go with the tunes that flow
On the breath of my soul-strung lyre.

He went to live in far Japan, where life is like a dream;
Where cherry blossoms scent the air and care is dead, 't would seem;
Where sweet wisterias climb the porch up to the tiny roof
And fling their flowers to the air; where trouble holds aloof;
Where geisha girls and jinrickshas and fans and love and tea,
Make up the life of ease he sought, from worldly troubles free.

He went to live in far Japan, and there one day he bought
A little doll-house for himself — at least that's what he thought —

I MIGHT , of course, send violets by the score, dear,
(And stretch quite to the breaking point, my credit)
In verses, tell the story o'er and o'er, dear—
But “really” poets have much better said it.
I might send candy, books or songs, I know,
But all of these seem stupid commonplaces,
I 'd rather be a kid again and show
My love in gorgeous hearts and paper laces!
“If you love me as I love you—”
Is best of all, when it is true!

You might disguise your hand and shyly send me
A dainty volume, filled with sentiment,

The petals of the faded rose
Commingle silently,
One with the atoms of the dust,
One with the chaliced sea.

The essence of my fleeting youth
Caught in the web of time,
Exhales within the springing flowers
Or breathes in love sublime.

Fierce is the conflict — the battle of eyes,
Sure and unerring, the wordless replies,
Challenges flash from their ambushing caves —
Men, by their glances, are masters or slaves.