I wrote a poem to the moon But no one noticed it; Although I hoped that late or soon Someone would praise a bit Its purity and grace forlone, Its beauty tulip-cool... But as my poem died still-born, I felt a fool.
I wrote a verse of vulgar trend Spiced with an oath or two; I tacked a snapper at the end And called it Dan McGrew. I spouted it to bar-room boys, Full fifty years away; Yet still with rude and ribald noise It lives today.
'Tis bitter truth, but there you are- That's how a name is made; Write of a rose, a lark, a star, You'll never make the grade. But write of gutter and of grime, Of pimp and prostitute, The multitude will read your rhyme, And pay to boot.
So what's the use to burn and bleed And strive for beauty's sake? No one your poetry will read, Your heart will only break. But set your song in vulgar pitch, If rhyme you will not rue, And make your heroine a bitch... Like Lady Lou.
My pipe is out, my glass is dry; My fire is almost ashes too; But once again, before you go, And I prepare to meet the New; Old Year! a parting word that's true, For we've been comrades, you and I-- I thank God for each day of you; There! bless you now! Old Year, good-bye!
There’s a land where the mountains are nameless,
And the rivers all run God knows where;
There are lives that are erring and aimless,
And deaths that just hang by a hair;
There are hardships that nobody reckons;
There are valleys unpeopled and still;
There’s a land — oh, it beckons and beckons,
And I want to go back — and I will.