An age in her embraces pass'd
Would seem a winter's day,
Where life and light with envious haste
Are torn and snatch'd away.

But oh, how slowly minutes roll
When absent from her eyes,
That feed my love, which is my soul:
It languishes and dies.

For then no more a soul, but shade,
It mournfully does move
And haunts my breast, by absence made
The living tomb of love.

You wiser men, despise me not
Whose lovesick fancy raves
On shades of souls, and heaven knows what
Short ages live in graves.

When I was twenty inches long,
I could not hear the thrushes' song;
The radiance of morning skies
Was most displeasing to my eyes.

For loving looks, caressing words,
I cared no more than sun or birds;
But I could bite my mother's breast,
And that made up for all the rest.

EVERYBODY
Half-pint,—
Gin?
No, make it
LOVES MY BABY
corn. You like
liquor,
don't you, honey?
BUT MY BABY
Sure. Kiss me,
DON'T LOVE NOBODY
daddy.
BUT ME.
Say!
EVERYBODY
Yes?
WANTS MY BABY
I'm your
BUT MY BABY
sweetie, ain't I?
DON'T WANT NOBODY
Sure.
BUT
Then let's
ME,
do it!
SWEET ME.
Charleston,
mamma!

Leave me, O Love, which reachest but to dust,
And thou, my mind, aspire to higher things;
Grow rich in that which never taketh rust;
Whatever fades, but fading pleasure brings.
Draw in thy beams, and humble all thy might
To that sweet yoke where lasting freedoms be,
Which breaks the clouds, and opens forth the light
That doth both shine and give us sight to see.
O take fast hold, let that light be thy guide
In this small course which birth draws out to death,
And think how ill becometh him to slide

Acacias' gold and red are falling.
Falling at dusk, in the autumn light.
One-sided love, light flannel, my melancholy,
as I walk by the water in " Towboat. "
Your soft sighs are falling.
Acacias' gold and red are falling.

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An Angel writing in a book of gold:

Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the Presence in the room he said,
"What writest thou?" The Vision raised its head,
And with a look made of all sweet accord
Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord."

"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so,"
Replied the Angel. Abou spoke more low,

Cyanogen seas are surging
On fierce cinnabarine strands,
Where white Amazons are marching,
Through the radiance of the sands.

Oh, could only lambent love-flame
Be like the surging sea,
Deluge the red of the desert
And drown the white virgins in me!

It’s often those
who talk a streak

on world affairs
and love and peace

who seem to love
and peace the least.

“And dost thou love me not a whit the less:
And is thy heart as tremulous as of yore,
And do thine eyes mirror the wonderfulness,
And do thy lips retain their magic lore?”
What, Sweet, can these things be, ev'n in thy thought,
And I so briefly gone, so swiftly come
Nay, if the pulse of life its beat forgot
This speaking heart would not thereby be dumb.
I love thee, love thee so, O beautiful Hell
That dost consume heart, brain, nerves, body, soul
That even my immortal birthright I would sell
Were Heaven to choose, or Thee, as my one goal.

With wasps and bees my busy bill
Sucks ill from good, and good from ill:
Humility makes my pride to grow,
And pride aspiring lays me low.

My standing does my fall procure,
My falling makes me stand more sure.
My poison does my physic prove,
My enmity provokes my love.

My poverty infers my wealth,
My sickness issues in my health.
My hardness tends to make me soft,
And killing things to cure me oft.

While high attainments cast me down,
My deep abasement raise me soon.
My best things oft have evil brood;