Out of the depths of a heart of love,
Out of the birth-place of sighs,
Freighted with hope and freighted with fear,
My all in a valentine, hies.
Oh, frail little missive
Of delicate texture,
Speed thee, on thy journey,
And give her a lecture!

Fathom her heart, that seems to me, cold,
Trouble her bosom, as mine,
Let it be mutual, this that I crave,
Her ‘yes’ for a valentine.
Oh, frail little missive,
In coy Cupid's keeping,
Oh! speed back a message,
To set my pulse leaping.

Out of my sorrow
I'll build a stair,
And every to-morrow
Will climb to me there;

With ashes of yesterday
In its hair.

My fortune is made
Of a stab in the side,
My debts are paid
In pennies of pride;

Little red coins
In a heart I hide.

The stones that I eat
Are ripe for my needs,
My cup is complete
With the dregs of deeds;

Clear are the notes
Of my broken reeds.

I carry my pack
Of aches and stings,
Light with the lack
Of all good things;

But not on my back,

Out of a cavern on Parnassus' side,
Flows Castaly; and with the flood outblown
From its deep heart of ice, the mountain's breath
Tempers the ardor of the Delphian vale.
Beside the stream from the black mould upsprings
Narcissus, robed in snow, with ruby crowned.
Long ranks of crocus, humble servitors,
But clad in purple, mark his downcast face.
The sward, moist from the flood, is pied with flowers,
Lily and vetch, lupine and melilot,
The hyacinth, cowslip, and gay marigold,
While, on the border of the copse, sweet herbs,

Out in the misty moonlight
The first snowflakes I see,
As they frolic among the leafless
Limbs of the apple-tree.

Faintly they seem to whisper,
As round the boughs they wing:
" We are the ghosts of the blossoms
That died in the early spring. "

Out in the garden, sunny and still,
Nothing to do till tea,
Let's go up to the top of the hill!
Come along, puppy, with me.

Up on the hill-top, sunny and tall,
Nothing to do till tea,
Let's go down to the old stone wall!
Come along, puppy, with me.

Down by the old wall, sunny and grey,
Nothing do to till tea,
Let's go out to the meadow to play!
Come along, puppy, with me!

Out in the meadow, sunny and wide,
Come along, puppy, with me.
Let's go right to the other side!
And then go home to tea.

Out in the garden
When school was done
I blew bubbles
In the sun.

I blew a bubble
Huge as could be!
It hung in the air
For all to see.

Into my bubble
I looked and found
A Schining land
That was rainbow round.

It looked like a world
Meant for no one but fairies.
They'd keep little farms there
With cows, chicks, and dairies.
Woods where the pixies
Could picnic for pleasure,
And hide near the rainbows
Their crocks of strange treasure.

Countries were marked there
Plain as could be;

Out in the desert afar, dost thou roam —
Out on the waste bleak and wild;
Why dost thou wander so far from thy home?
Wolves will o'ertake thee dear child.
Jesus stands pleading,
With wounds afresh bleeding;
O, come to his arms, meek and mild!

Out on the mountain so bare and so cold,
Hunger will blast thy fair cheek;
Jesus, the shepherd, has left the dear fold,
Now for THEE lost one to seek.
Eventide falleth,
His tender voice calleth —
Hear the sweet tones low and meek!

Wander no longer across the wild moor;

Out in the dark it throbs and glows—
The wide, wild sea, that no man knows!
The wind is chill, the surge is white,
And I must sail that sea to-night.

You shall not sail! The breakers roar
On many a mile of iron shore,
The waves are livid in their wrath,
And no man knows the ocean path.

I must not bide for wind or wave;
I must not heed, though tempest rave;
My course is set, my hour is known,
And I must front the dark, alone.

Your eyes are wild, your face is pale,—
This is no night for ships to sail!

VERSE 1

Out in Arizona where the bad men are
And the only friend to guide you is an evening star,
The roughest, toughest man, by far,
Is Ragtime Cowboy Joe.
Got his name from singin' to the cows and sheep;
Ev'ry night, they say, he sings the herd to sleep
In a basso, rich and deep,
Crooning soft and low.

REFRAIN

He always sings
Raggy music to the cattle as he swings
Back and forward in the saddle on a horse
That is syncopated, gaited;
And there's such a funny meter

Out here the dogs of war run loose,
Their whipper-in is Death;
Across the spoilt and battered fields
We hear their sobbing breath.
The fields where grew the living corn
Are heavy with our dead;
Yet still the fields at home are green
And I have heard it said:
That —
There are crocuses at Nottingham!
Wild crocuses at Nottingham!
Blue crocuses at Nottingham!
Though here the grass is red.

There are little girls at Nottingham
Who do not dread the Boche,
Young girls at school at Nottingham
(Lord! how I need a wash!).