Over All Life Broods Poesy, Like The

The Quiet Tenderness Of Chaucer, Where You Almost Seem To Hear The Hot Tears Falling, And The Simple Choking Words Sobbed Out.

The New World's Sons From England's Breast We Drew Such Milk As Bids Remember Whence We Came, Proud Of Her Past Wherefrom Our Future Grew, This Window We Inscribe With Raleigh's Fame.

It Is Beginning To Be Doubtful Whether Parliament And Congress Sit In Westminster And Washington, Or In The Editorial Rooms Of The Leading Journals,--so Thoroughly Is Everything Debated Before The Authorized And Responsible Debaters Get On Their Legs.

May Is A Pious Fraud Of The Almanac A Ghastly Parody Of Real Spring Shaped Out Of Snow And Breathed With Eastern Wind.

What Men Call Luck Is The Prerogative Of Valiant Souls, The Fealty Life Pays Its Rightful Kings.