General Books

A for Arab.This Arab is upset, I fear;Look at his pretty shield and spear.He's stuck two pistols in his sash,And, dear me, how his eyes do flash!At home he has a horse to ride;To "scour the desert" is his pride.His horse is of the purest breed;Some people call his horse a steed.Here is your little brother Boer,Of course, you've heard of him before;He has a naughty Uncle Paul,Who used... more...

THE BURIAL OF COCK ROBIN. Here lies Cock Robin,Dead and cold;This book his endWill soon unfold. Who kill'd Cock Robin?I, said the Sparrow,With my bow and arrow,And I kill'd Cock Robin. This is the Sparrow,With his bow and arrow. Who saw him die?I, said the fly,With my little eye,And I saw him die. This is the Fly,With his little eye. Who caught his blood?I, said the Fish,With my little... more...

THE STUDY OF POETRY. BY FRANCIS HOVEY STODDARD. Clever men of action, according to Bacon, despise studies, ignorant men too much admire them, wise men make use of them. "Yet," he says, "they teach not their own use, but that there is a wisdom without them and above them won by observation." These are the words of a man who had been taught by years of studiousness the emptiness of mere... more...

CANTO XXIX SO were mine eyes inebriate with viewOf the vast multitude, whom various woundsDisfigur'd, that they long'd to stay and weep. But Virgil rous'd me: "What yet gazest on?Wherefore doth fasten yet thy sight belowAmong the maim'd and miserable shades?Thou hast not shewn in any chasm besideThis weakness.  Know, if thou wouldst number themThat two and twenty miles the... more...

In the Factory Oh, here in the shop the machines roar so wildly,That oft, unaware that I am, or have been,I sink and am lost in the terrible tumult;And void is my soul… I am but a machine.I work and I work and I work, never ceasing;Create and create things from morning till e'en;For what?—and for whom—Oh, I know not! Oh, ask not!Who ever has heard of a conscious machine? No, here is no... more...

PILATE'S WIFE'S DREAM. I've quench'd my lamp, I struck it in that startWhich every limb convulsed, I heard it fall—The crash blent with my sleep, I saw departIts light, even as I woke, on yonder wall;Over against my bed, there shone a gleamStrange, faint, and mingling also with my dream. It sank, and I am wrapt in utter gloom;How far is night advanced, and when will... more...

BAYBERRY CANDLESDear sweet, when dusk comes up the hill,    The fire leaps high with golden prongs;I place along the chimneysill    The tiny candles of my songs. And though unsteadily they burn,    As evening shades from grey to blueLike candles they will surely learn    To shine more clear, for love of you. SECRET LAUGHTER"I had a secret... more...

RHYMES OF A ROLLING STONE Prelude I sing no idle songs of dalliance days,No dreams Elysian inspire my rhyming;I have no Celia to enchant my lays,No pipes of Pan have set my heart to chiming.I am no wordsmith dripping gems divineInto the golden chalice of a sonnet;If love songs witch you, close this book of mine,Waste no time on it. Yet bring I to my work an eager joy,A lusty love of life and all things... more...

RELIGION AND POETRY BY WASHINGTON GLADDEN. The time is not long past when the copulative in that title might have suggested to some minds an antithesis,—as acid and alkali, or heat and cold. That religion could have affiliation with anything so worldly as poetry would have seemed to some pious people a questionable proposition. There were the Psalms, in the Old Testament, to be sure; and the minister... more...

The Hill People.Their steps are light and exceedingly fleet:They pass me by in the hurrying street.I pause to look at a window’s show—From the white-flecked alp the hill winds blow—And all at once it has passed me there,Lilting back to the land of the air,Back to the land of the great white stills:Is it only the wind that comes down from the hills?———Was it Pikes Peak Pixie or Cheyenne... more...