BEARPAWS NATHAN ZEBRATAIL There was once a boy named Nathan Green.He was never rude and never mean.But everyone was scared of him,Nancy, Dennis, Tom and Tim.Nick and Susan, Mike and James,Never let him play their games.He knew why, but didn’t say.His mom said he was born that way.Nathan’s hands aren’t hands at all.They’re bigger than a basketball.They’re covered brown by furry hair,Just like paws on any bear.Nathan... more...

I propose to treat of Poetry in itself and of its various kinds, noting the essential quality of each; to inquire into the structure of the plot as requisite to a good poem; into the number and nature of the parts of which a poem is composed; and similarly into whatever else falls within the same inquiry. Following, then, the order of nature, let us begin with the principles which come first. Epic poetry and Tragedy, Comedy also and Dithyrambic:... more...

Romance I When I go forth to greet the glad-faced Spring,Just at the time of opening apple-buds,When brooks are laughing, winds are whispering,On babbling hillsides or in warbling woods,There is an unseen presence that eludes:—Perhaps a Dryad, in whose tresses clingThe loamy odors of old solitudes,Who, from her beechen doorway, calls; and leadsMy soul to follow; now with dimpling wordsOf leaves; and now with syllables of birds;While here... more...

Lord Roehampton   During a late election LordRoehampton strained a vocal chordFrom shouting, very loud and high,To lots and lots of people whyThe Budget in his own opin--Ion should not be allowed to win. He   sought a Specialist, who said:"You have a swelling in the head:Your Larynx is a thought relaxedAnd you are greatly over-taxed." "I am indeed! On every side!"The Earl (for such he was) replied   In hoarse excitement....... more...

A FROSTY NIGHT. MotherAlice, dear, what ails you,Dazed and white and shaken?Has the chill night numbed you?Is it fright you have taken?Alice Mother, I am very well,I felt never better,Mother, do not hold me so,Let me write my letter.MotherSweet, my dear, what ails you?AliceNo, but I am well;The night was cold and frosty,There's no more to tell.MotherAy, the night was frosty,Coldly gaped the moon,Yet the birds seemed twitteringThrough green... more...

THE SEABOARD. The sea is at ebb, and the sound of her utmost word Is soft as the least wave’s lapse in a still small reach. From bay into bay, on quest of a goal deferred, From headland ever to headland and breach to breach Where earth gives ear to the message that all days preach With changes of gladness and sadness that cheer and chide, The lone way lures me along by a chance untried That haply, if hope dissolve not... more...

INVOCATION. Thou with the dark blue eye upturned to heaven,And cheek now pale, now warm with radiant glow,          Daughter of God,—most dear,—          Come with thy quivering tear,And tresses wild, and robes of loosened flow,—To thy lone votaress let one look be given! Come Poesy! nor like some just-formed maid,With heart as... more...

Amos and Ann had a poem to learn,A poem to learn one day;But alas! they sighed, and alack! they cried,’Twere better to go and play.Ann was sure ’twas a waste of timeTo bother a child with jingling rhyme.Amos said, “What’s the sense in rhythm—Feet and lines?” He had finished with ’em! They peered at the poem with scowly faces,And yawned and stumbled and lost their places.Then—a breeze romped by, and... more...

In these days when the old civilisation is crumbling beneath our feet, the thought of poetry crosses the mind like the dear memory of things that have long since passed away. In our passionate desire for the new era, it is difficult to refrain oneself from the commonplace practice of speculating on the effects of warfare and of prophesying all manner of novel rebirths. But it may be well for us to remember that the era which has recently closed... more...

NOTE The motif of the story embodied in the following poem was crudely outlined in a brief sketch printed in an early collection of the authors verse, and subsequently cancelled for a purpose not until now accomplished. Wyndham Towers is not to be confused with this discarded sketch, the text of which has furnished only a phrase, or an indirect suggestion, here and there. That the writer's method, when recasting the poem, was more or less... more...