Sing, my warriors, sing! men of the sharklike race!Sing of the poet who came and greeted us face to face.He from the cold, gray North, I, in these tropic isles,Meet as brothers and bards, with eloquent songs and smiles—Meet as brothers, though singing words that are strange and proud.Pale and wan is his face, while mine is a thunder-cloud;But the heart of a man is hidden by neither language nor skin—To love as a man and a brother maketh the whole world kin.The tales that he tells are of heroes who fought like braves to the death—Bone of our bone are these heroes, the very breath of our breath!Then sing, my warriors, sing! men of the sharklike race!Sing of the poet who came and greeted us face to face!
Sing, my warriors, sing! men of the sharklike race!Sing of the poet who came and greeted us face to face.He from the cold, gray North, I, in these tropic isles,Meet as brothers and bards, with eloquent songs and smiles—Meet as brothers, though singing words that are strange and proud.Pale and wan is his face, while mine is a thunder-cloud;But the heart of a man is hidden by neither language nor skin—To love as a man and a brother maketh the whole world kin.The tales that he tells are of heroes who fought like braves to the death—Bone of our bone are these heroes, the very breath of our breath!Then sing, my warriors, sing! men of the sharklike race!Sing of the poet who came and greeted us face to face!
Sing, my warriors, sing! men of the sharklike race!Sing of the poet who came and greeted us face to face.He from the cold, gray North, I, in these tropic isles,Meet as brothers and bards, with eloquent songs and smiles—Meet as brothers, though singing words that are strange and proud.Pale and wan is his face, while mine is a thunder-cloud;But the heart of a man is hidden by neither language nor skin—To love as a man and a brother maketh the whole world kin.The tales that he tells are of heroes who fought like braves to the death—Bone of our bone are these heroes, the very breath of our breath!Then sing, my warriors, sing! men of the sharklike race!Sing of the poet who came and greeted us face to face!
FromOverheard in Arcady.
“Show me the face of Truth,” the Sahib said—“Show me its beauty, before I’m dead!”“Look!” said the priest, “with unflinching eyes;This is the World, and not Paradise.Look! It is wicked, and cruel, and strong, and wise!”
“Show me the face of Truth,” the Sahib said—“Show me its beauty, before I’m dead!”“Look!” said the priest, “with unflinching eyes;This is the World, and not Paradise.Look! It is wicked, and cruel, and strong, and wise!”
“Show me the face of Truth,” the Sahib said—“Show me its beauty, before I’m dead!”“Look!” said the priest, “with unflinching eyes;This is the World, and not Paradise.Look! It is wicked, and cruel, and strong, and wise!”
FromOverheard in Arcady.
Hesits in a sea-green grotto with a bucket of lurid paint,And draws the Thing as it isn’t for the God of Things as they ain’t!
Hesits in a sea-green grotto with a bucket of lurid paint,And draws the Thing as it isn’t for the God of Things as they ain’t!
Hesits in a sea-green grotto with a bucket of lurid paint,And draws the Thing as it isn’t for the God of Things as they ain’t!
Thefoolish story of a man and maidWho loved each other but were dire afraidTo follow where their true hearts surely ledAnd, risking all things, bravely to be wed.What’s in a creed to keep two souls apart?The universal solvent is the heart!
Thefoolish story of a man and maidWho loved each other but were dire afraidTo follow where their true hearts surely ledAnd, risking all things, bravely to be wed.What’s in a creed to keep two souls apart?The universal solvent is the heart!
Thefoolish story of a man and maidWho loved each other but were dire afraidTo follow where their true hearts surely ledAnd, risking all things, bravely to be wed.
What’s in a creed to keep two souls apart?The universal solvent is the heart!
Goodluck, good cheer, throughout the year!A bright fire on the hearthstone burning;A gleam of rose at evening’s closeWhen, wearied, you are homeward turning!By ingle-nook a soothing book—A few old friends in Mem’ry’s castle;A bit of rhyme at Christmas-timeTo wish you fortune at your wassail!
Goodluck, good cheer, throughout the year!A bright fire on the hearthstone burning;A gleam of rose at evening’s closeWhen, wearied, you are homeward turning!By ingle-nook a soothing book—A few old friends in Mem’ry’s castle;A bit of rhyme at Christmas-timeTo wish you fortune at your wassail!
Goodluck, good cheer, throughout the year!A bright fire on the hearthstone burning;A gleam of rose at evening’s closeWhen, wearied, you are homeward turning!By ingle-nook a soothing book—A few old friends in Mem’ry’s castle;A bit of rhyme at Christmas-timeTo wish you fortune at your wassail!
Inall your Calendar of SportsWhy, Rudyard, do you slight the wheel?Were you, then, never out of sortsUntil you felt the vibrant steelSkim over miles of level track?For youth, with all its hope and cheer,When we’re a-wheel comes rolling back—And it is Summer all the year!
Inall your Calendar of SportsWhy, Rudyard, do you slight the wheel?Were you, then, never out of sortsUntil you felt the vibrant steelSkim over miles of level track?For youth, with all its hope and cheer,When we’re a-wheel comes rolling back—And it is Summer all the year!
Inall your Calendar of SportsWhy, Rudyard, do you slight the wheel?Were you, then, never out of sortsUntil you felt the vibrant steelSkim over miles of level track?For youth, with all its hope and cheer,When we’re a-wheel comes rolling back—And it is Summer all the year!
TheCity’s roar is rising from the street;The old, bedraggled “types” are shuffling through the strife;They plod and push, and elbow as they meet,And glare and grin, and sadly call it “life.”For us the fireside hearth is all aglow,And those we love make up the life we know.
TheCity’s roar is rising from the street;The old, bedraggled “types” are shuffling through the strife;They plod and push, and elbow as they meet,And glare and grin, and sadly call it “life.”For us the fireside hearth is all aglow,And those we love make up the life we know.
TheCity’s roar is rising from the street;The old, bedraggled “types” are shuffling through the strife;They plod and push, and elbow as they meet,And glare and grin, and sadly call it “life.”
For us the fireside hearth is all aglow,And those we love make up the life we know.
Theyear is old, the way is far;I catch your image like a starThat’s mirrored in a crystal brook;For love of you I send a book!
Theyear is old, the way is far;I catch your image like a starThat’s mirrored in a crystal brook;For love of you I send a book!
Theyear is old, the way is far;I catch your image like a starThat’s mirrored in a crystal brook;For love of you I send a book!
Thoughall the streams are white with frostAnd all the fields with snow,Though earth its greenery has lost,And biting gales do blow—Still I’ll recall the summer hours,The blue skies and the vine—The hillsides pink with Alpine flowersTo greet my Valentine!
Thoughall the streams are white with frostAnd all the fields with snow,Though earth its greenery has lost,And biting gales do blow—Still I’ll recall the summer hours,The blue skies and the vine—The hillsides pink with Alpine flowersTo greet my Valentine!
Thoughall the streams are white with frostAnd all the fields with snow,Though earth its greenery has lost,And biting gales do blow—Still I’ll recall the summer hours,The blue skies and the vine—The hillsides pink with Alpine flowersTo greet my Valentine!
“Hallo, my Fancy! View Hallo!”The nimble game has broken coverAnd skims the valley to and fro;By cooling brooks it seems to hover,Then bounds along. “Ho, View Hallo!”The huntsmen cry from brake to loch;The chase grows ardent—“View Hallo!”From quiet shelter echoes,Droch.
“Hallo, my Fancy! View Hallo!”The nimble game has broken coverAnd skims the valley to and fro;By cooling brooks it seems to hover,Then bounds along. “Ho, View Hallo!”The huntsmen cry from brake to loch;The chase grows ardent—“View Hallo!”From quiet shelter echoes,Droch.
“Hallo, my Fancy! View Hallo!”The nimble game has broken coverAnd skims the valley to and fro;By cooling brooks it seems to hover,Then bounds along. “Ho, View Hallo!”The huntsmen cry from brake to loch;The chase grows ardent—“View Hallo!”From quiet shelter echoes,Droch.
I’mkeeping jolly comp’nyIn a room that’s full of books;I’m cheek by jowl with HoraceAnd a lot of ancient crooks.But the boys I like to play with,When the boss takes off his coat,Are the wild and woolly heroesFrom Casey’s tabble-dote.And when the lamp is lightedAnd cosey hours ensue,I talk with All-AloneyAnd the little Boy in Blue.But when the man that owns the booksThrows one kind glance atmeI sing just like the DinkeyIn the Amfelula Tree.
I’mkeeping jolly comp’nyIn a room that’s full of books;I’m cheek by jowl with HoraceAnd a lot of ancient crooks.But the boys I like to play with,When the boss takes off his coat,Are the wild and woolly heroesFrom Casey’s tabble-dote.And when the lamp is lightedAnd cosey hours ensue,I talk with All-AloneyAnd the little Boy in Blue.But when the man that owns the booksThrows one kind glance atmeI sing just like the DinkeyIn the Amfelula Tree.
I’mkeeping jolly comp’nyIn a room that’s full of books;I’m cheek by jowl with HoraceAnd a lot of ancient crooks.But the boys I like to play with,When the boss takes off his coat,Are the wild and woolly heroesFrom Casey’s tabble-dote.And when the lamp is lightedAnd cosey hours ensue,I talk with All-AloneyAnd the little Boy in Blue.But when the man that owns the booksThrows one kind glance atmeI sing just like the DinkeyIn the Amfelula Tree.
Toweep with those who weep is human;We give our praises to the man of grit,And honor with our trust the true man;Let’s laugh a little with a man of wit!
Toweep with those who weep is human;We give our praises to the man of grit,And honor with our trust the true man;Let’s laugh a little with a man of wit!
Toweep with those who weep is human;We give our praises to the man of grit,And honor with our trust the true man;Let’s laugh a little with a man of wit!
Youmay turn these pages over,Looking for the priceless pearl;You may search from back to coverFor the finest Gibson girl.You can save yourself the trouble—It’s no earthly use to look:The charming girl who takes the medalIs a-holding of the book.
Youmay turn these pages over,Looking for the priceless pearl;You may search from back to coverFor the finest Gibson girl.You can save yourself the trouble—It’s no earthly use to look:The charming girl who takes the medalIs a-holding of the book.
Youmay turn these pages over,Looking for the priceless pearl;You may search from back to coverFor the finest Gibson girl.You can save yourself the trouble—It’s no earthly use to look:The charming girl who takes the medalIs a-holding of the book.
Amakerof smooth verse and facile rhymes,And lover of quaint legends from old times;A joyous singer in New England bleak—Her heart is Irish and her mind is Greek.
Amakerof smooth verse and facile rhymes,And lover of quaint legends from old times;A joyous singer in New England bleak—Her heart is Irish and her mind is Greek.
Amakerof smooth verse and facile rhymes,And lover of quaint legends from old times;A joyous singer in New England bleak—Her heart is Irish and her mind is Greek.
Wemet her first in Arcady,Where visions fair are apt to be,Roaming beneath the arching trees—Her laughter cheering up the breeze;Sometimes as gay asColinette,Then fond and sad asJuliet.And when we’d had enough of anguishShe’d make us laugh asLydia Languish.No mask or mood was twice the same—Yet one fair face behind each name.As that bright vixen of the mind,The fascinatingRosalīnd—AsImogenorViola,Or, best of all, sweetBarbara—Always the same alluring graceAnd wit that sparkles in her face!The road to Arcady is farAnd sometimes lonely for a star—But all the phantoms of the airAnd poets’ dreams that wander thereWould miss the welcome we extend,Not to her Art—just to a friend!
Wemet her first in Arcady,Where visions fair are apt to be,Roaming beneath the arching trees—Her laughter cheering up the breeze;Sometimes as gay asColinette,Then fond and sad asJuliet.And when we’d had enough of anguishShe’d make us laugh asLydia Languish.No mask or mood was twice the same—Yet one fair face behind each name.As that bright vixen of the mind,The fascinatingRosalīnd—AsImogenorViola,Or, best of all, sweetBarbara—Always the same alluring graceAnd wit that sparkles in her face!The road to Arcady is farAnd sometimes lonely for a star—But all the phantoms of the airAnd poets’ dreams that wander thereWould miss the welcome we extend,Not to her Art—just to a friend!
Wemet her first in Arcady,Where visions fair are apt to be,Roaming beneath the arching trees—Her laughter cheering up the breeze;Sometimes as gay asColinette,Then fond and sad asJuliet.And when we’d had enough of anguishShe’d make us laugh asLydia Languish.No mask or mood was twice the same—Yet one fair face behind each name.As that bright vixen of the mind,The fascinatingRosalīnd—AsImogenorViola,Or, best of all, sweetBarbara—Always the same alluring graceAnd wit that sparkles in her face!The road to Arcady is farAnd sometimes lonely for a star—But all the phantoms of the airAnd poets’ dreams that wander thereWould miss the welcome we extend,Not to her Art—just to a friend!
Hereis the story—I haven’t half told it;The fun and the glory,A volume can’t hold it.But this is a spray,Withered leaves and pressed flowers,From a faded bouquetThat was plucked in gay hours,Within sound of the wavesOf the gentle Pacific,Where Nature enslavesAnd the days beatificAre sandalled with goldAnd wear gems on their fingers.All the tale is not toldWhich slow Fancy weaves,But a faint odor lingersAbout these dry leavesThat may bring recollectionOf prairie and lochWith a hint of affectionFromYours ever,Droch.
Hereis the story—I haven’t half told it;The fun and the glory,A volume can’t hold it.But this is a spray,Withered leaves and pressed flowers,From a faded bouquetThat was plucked in gay hours,Within sound of the wavesOf the gentle Pacific,Where Nature enslavesAnd the days beatificAre sandalled with goldAnd wear gems on their fingers.All the tale is not toldWhich slow Fancy weaves,But a faint odor lingersAbout these dry leavesThat may bring recollectionOf prairie and lochWith a hint of affectionFromYours ever,Droch.
Hereis the story—I haven’t half told it;The fun and the glory,A volume can’t hold it.But this is a spray,Withered leaves and pressed flowers,From a faded bouquetThat was plucked in gay hours,Within sound of the wavesOf the gentle Pacific,Where Nature enslavesAnd the days beatificAre sandalled with goldAnd wear gems on their fingers.All the tale is not toldWhich slow Fancy weaves,But a faint odor lingersAbout these dry leavesThat may bring recollectionOf prairie and lochWith a hint of affectionFromYours ever,Droch.
Dedication ofThe Monterey Wedding.
Longyears you’ve kept the door ajarTo greet me, coming from afar;Long years in my accustomed placeI’ve read my welcome in your face,And felt the sunlight of your loveDrive back the years and gently moveThe telltale shadow ’round to youth.You’ve found the very spring, in truth,That baffles time—the kindling joyThat keeps me in your heart a boy.And now I send an unknown guestTo bide with you and snugly restBeside the old home’s ingle-nook.—For love of me you’ll love my book.
Longyears you’ve kept the door ajarTo greet me, coming from afar;Long years in my accustomed placeI’ve read my welcome in your face,And felt the sunlight of your loveDrive back the years and gently moveThe telltale shadow ’round to youth.You’ve found the very spring, in truth,That baffles time—the kindling joyThat keeps me in your heart a boy.And now I send an unknown guestTo bide with you and snugly restBeside the old home’s ingle-nook.—For love of me you’ll love my book.
Longyears you’ve kept the door ajarTo greet me, coming from afar;Long years in my accustomed placeI’ve read my welcome in your face,And felt the sunlight of your loveDrive back the years and gently moveThe telltale shadow ’round to youth.You’ve found the very spring, in truth,That baffles time—the kindling joyThat keeps me in your heart a boy.And now I send an unknown guestTo bide with you and snugly restBeside the old home’s ingle-nook.—For love of me you’ll love my book.
Dedication ofOverheard in Arcady.
Mylady’s room is full of booksAnd easy-chairs and curtained nooks,And dainty tea-things on a table,And poetry, and tale, and fable,And on the hearth a crackling fireThat welcome gives, and when you tireOf pleasant talk you still may findA tempting pasture where the mindMay browse awhile, and read the pagesWhich poets wrote, or fools, or sages.And here I come to ask a placeAmong these worthies, face to face!To be allowed on some low shelfTo rest and dream, and pride myselfOn being in such company—To watch fair women drinking tea;And if, perchance, on some lone day,The gentle mistress looks my wayAnd softly says, “Now I shall seeWhat’s going on in Arcady!”Then I’ll rejoice that I’m a bookAt which my lady deigns to look.
Mylady’s room is full of booksAnd easy-chairs and curtained nooks,And dainty tea-things on a table,And poetry, and tale, and fable,And on the hearth a crackling fireThat welcome gives, and when you tireOf pleasant talk you still may findA tempting pasture where the mindMay browse awhile, and read the pagesWhich poets wrote, or fools, or sages.And here I come to ask a placeAmong these worthies, face to face!To be allowed on some low shelfTo rest and dream, and pride myselfOn being in such company—To watch fair women drinking tea;And if, perchance, on some lone day,The gentle mistress looks my wayAnd softly says, “Now I shall seeWhat’s going on in Arcady!”Then I’ll rejoice that I’m a bookAt which my lady deigns to look.
Mylady’s room is full of booksAnd easy-chairs and curtained nooks,And dainty tea-things on a table,And poetry, and tale, and fable,And on the hearth a crackling fireThat welcome gives, and when you tireOf pleasant talk you still may findA tempting pasture where the mindMay browse awhile, and read the pagesWhich poets wrote, or fools, or sages.
And here I come to ask a placeAmong these worthies, face to face!To be allowed on some low shelfTo rest and dream, and pride myselfOn being in such company—To watch fair women drinking tea;And if, perchance, on some lone day,The gentle mistress looks my wayAnd softly says, “Now I shall seeWhat’s going on in Arcady!”Then I’ll rejoice that I’m a bookAt which my lady deigns to look.
Thesun is warm upon the ridges now;The way was rough and steep;I’ll seek the shelter of a leafy boughAnd watch my grazing sheep.The smoke is rising from the valley there,The hum of wheels and trade;The stress of life is in the whirling airWhile I pipe in the shade.Where work is fierce amid the striving throngAnd music’s voice is mute,Some one may catch the echo of a song—The faint note of a lute.
Thesun is warm upon the ridges now;The way was rough and steep;I’ll seek the shelter of a leafy boughAnd watch my grazing sheep.The smoke is rising from the valley there,The hum of wheels and trade;The stress of life is in the whirling airWhile I pipe in the shade.Where work is fierce amid the striving throngAnd music’s voice is mute,Some one may catch the echo of a song—The faint note of a lute.
Thesun is warm upon the ridges now;The way was rough and steep;I’ll seek the shelter of a leafy boughAnd watch my grazing sheep.The smoke is rising from the valley there,The hum of wheels and trade;The stress of life is in the whirling airWhile I pipe in the shade.Where work is fierce amid the striving throngAnd music’s voice is mute,Some one may catch the echo of a song—The faint note of a lute.