Great poems by the masters

[PhilO 0]

Unafraid

Who fears his body fears his soul

And goes with an unequal mind

Wavering to an uncertain goal

Never to round a perfect whole

Which he may seek but shall not find.

Wisdom doth nothing human shun,

Knows spirit, passion, mind as one.

                                        Anonymous

←

This is particularly fascinating (on top of beautiful). Doesn't this sound very much like a criticism of mind/body dichotomy? The author appears to have an explicit idea of mind/body integration, which is very interesting if this is from ancient Greece. I didn't know that that concept explicitly existed in that era.

[B. Royce 0]

This is particularly fascinating (on top of beautiful). Doesn't this sound very much like a criticism of mind/body dichotomy? The author appears to have an explicit idea of mind/body integration, which is very interesting if this is from ancient Greece. I didn't know that that concept explicitly existed in that era.

←

Yes, "if" is the question. I don't know how much of the poem is Wallace Rice himself; that is, writing in what he judged to the Greek manner while expressing (at least some of) his own ideas.

[bignosedcopperking 0]

Now I can't say whether Bjornsterjerne Bjornson is a poetic master, for I don't read any Swedish. However, the poem that follows is quite charming, and is to be found in a charming little novel called, *The Fisher Maid*. There are several poems that follow after this one that are integrated into the story, so from that I can gather that Bjornson is a poet. (I began to read this book on the explorer's premise and must say that I recommend to read all of Hugo before reading this foreign romance, though it is not bad at all.)

Thanks, friend, for the warning words you say,

Yet across yon sea will I seek my way,

Though the winds may howl and the breakers roar,

Though I never again should come back to the shore;

For this is the chief of pleasures to me,

To drive my keel through the unknown sea;

To feel the waves dash over my prow,

As I try how fast and how far I can go.

(Spoken by Petra in *Smoke, Fire, and Snow*)

[Kitty Hawk 0]

Despite his morbid fascination with death, I like a lot of Edgar Allan Poe's poetry. Especially this one:

To Helen

Helen, thy beauty is to me

Like those Nicean barks of yore,

That gently, o'er a perfumed sea,

The weary, wayworn wanderer bore

To his own native shore.

On desperate seas long wont to roam,

Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,

Thy Naiad airs have brought me home

To the glory that was Greece

And the grandeur that was Rome.

Lo! in yon brilliant window-niche

How statue-like I see thee stand,

The agate lamp within thy hand!

Ah, Psyche, from the regions which

Are Holy Land!

[B. Royce 0]

Kitty Hawk, "To Helen" is one of my favorites of Poe's, too. He uses the sounds of words so well to represent his subject and to make of speech an enjoyable deed.

It was the studying of Poe in my freshman high school English class which inspired me to spend every study period thereafter making up verses. We studied only "The Raven", but I loved the changing voices in "The Bells". "Annabel Lee" was another early favorite.

[Kitty Hawk 0]

Poe has the most musical way with language of any poet I've read. He makes great use of rhyme, assonance, alliteration, and all the other tools of the sound of language. He's also very good at establishing a mood. Reading Poe let's you see how beautiful the English language can be, in the hands of a master.

His philosophy of life is an entirely different matter, of course.

[Myrhaf 0]

Here is a very positive sonnet by an unknown poet, published in 1593---

His Lady's Might

Those eyes which set my fancy on a fire,

Those crisped hairs which hold my heart in chains,

Those dainty hands which conquered my desire,

That wit which of my thoughts doth hold the reins!

Those eyes, for clearness do the stars surpass,

Those hairs obscure the brightness of the sun,

Those hands, more white than ever ivory was,

That wit, even to the skies hath glory won!

O eyes that pierce our hearts without remorse,

O hairs of right that wear a royal crown,

O hands that conquer more than Caesar's force,

O wit that turns huge kingdoms upside down!

Then Love be judge, what heart may thee withstand,

Such eyes, such hair, such wit, and such a hand.

←

I wonder if Shakespeare was responding to this poem when he wrote Sonnet 130:

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;

Coral is far more red than her lips' red;

If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;

If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.

I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,

But no such roses see I in her cheeks;

And in some perfumes is there more delight

Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.

I love to hear her speak, yet well I know

That music hath a far more pleasing sound;

I grant I never saw a goddess go;

My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:

And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare

As any she belied with false compare.

[B. Royce 0]

Myrhaf, perhaps, but I much prefer "His Lady's Might". Note that when the poet makes a comparison such as "Those eyes, for clearness do the stars surpass", he is not speaking literally, but is expressing an evaluation. In otherwords---I value her so much that this part of her---her eyes---mean more to me (or, light up my life more) than the stars. By such a comparison he is not regarding his beloved as unearthly, which the Shakespeare sonnet would imply IF it were a response to "His Lady's Might".

[B. Royce 0]

Poe has the most musical way with language of any poet I've read.  He makes great use of rhyme, assonance, alliteration, and all the other tools of the sound of language.  He's also very good at establishing a mood.  Reading Poe let's you see how beautiful the English language can be, in the hands of a master.

His philosophy of life is an entirely different matter, of course.

←

Yes, there's a very effective use of alliteration in "To Helen", especially in the last two lines of the second stanza: "From the Glory that was GReece/To the GRandeur that was Rome. Here we have a woven alliteration, from G to GR and from GR to R. Also, being that the structures of the two lines are the same, "grandeur", because it takes a longer time to say than "glory", sounds like what it means.

A brilliant effect, too, is "statue-like" in the last stanza, suggesting, with that cut off "k" the sharp rigid outline of a statue. Then, in the following line, look at the similar structure of "agate lamp", and the alliteration from "l" in "like" to "l" in "lamp", but here the soft "amp" suggests a warm, living love. "Ah, Psyche"!

[B. Royce 0]

I just discovered the two following poems today in an old book of Irish Songs and Lyrics. The author of both is John Boyle O'Reilly (1844-1890).

A White Rose

The red rose whispers of passion,

And the white rose breathes of love;

O the red rose is a falcon,

And the white rose is a dove.

But I send you a cream-white rosebud

With a flush on its petal tips;

For the love that is purest and sweetest

Has a kiss of desire on the lips.

_______________________________________

Mayflower

Thunder our thanks to her---guns, hearts and lips!

Cheer from the ranks of her,

Shout from the banks to her----

Mayflower! Foremost and best of our ships.

Mayflower! Twice in the national story

Thy dear name in letters of gold---

Woven in texture that never grows old---

Winning a home and winning glory!

Sailing the years to us, welcomed for aye;

Cherished for centuries, dearest today.

Every heart throbs for her, every flag dips---

Mayflower! First and last, best of our ships.

White as a seagull, she swept the long passage.

True as the homing-bird flies with its message.

Love her? O richer than silk every sail of her.

Trust her? More precious than gold every nail of her.

Write we down faithfully every man's part in her;

Greet we all gratefully every true heart in her.

More than a name to us, sailing the fleetest,

Symbol of that which is purest and sweetest:

More than a keel to us, steering the straightest,

Emblem of that which is freest and greatest:

More than dove-bosomed sail to the windward,

Flame passing on while the night-clouds fly hindward.

Kiss every plank of her! None shall take rank of her;

Frontward or weatherward, none can eclipse.

Thunder our thanks to her! Cheer from the banks to her!

Mayflower! Foremost and best of our ships!

_____________________________________________________

[B. Royce 0]

Here is a late nineteenth century poem by Thomas Rolleston.

To My Bicycle

In the airy whirling wheel is the springing strength of steel,

And the sinew grows to steel day by day,

Till you feel your pulses leap at the easy swing and sweep

As the hedges flicker past upon your way.

Then it's out to the kiss of the morning breeze

And the rose of the morning sky,

And the long brown road where the tired spirit's load

Slips off as the leagues go by!

Black and silver, swift and strong, with a pleasant undersong

From the steady rippling murmer of the chain,

Half a thing of life and will, you may feel it start and thrill

With a quick elastic answer to the strain,

As you ride to the kiss of the morning breeze

And the rose of the morning sky,

And the long brown road where the tired spirit's load

Slips off as the leagues go by.

Miles a hundred you may run from the rising of the sun,

To the gleam of the first white star.

You may ride through tywenty towns, meet the sun upon the downs,

Or the wind on the mountain scaur.

Then it's out to the kiss of the morning breeze

And the rose of the morning sky,

And the long brown road where the tired spirit's load

Slips off as the leagues go by.

Down the pleasant countryside, through the woodland's summer pride,

You have come in your forenoon spin.

And you never would have guessed how delicious is the rest

In the shade by the wayside inn,

When you have sought the kiss of the morning breeze,

And the rose of the morning sky,

And the long brown road where the tired spirit's load

Slips off as the leagues go by.

There is many a one who teaches that the shining river-reaches

Are the place to spend a long June day,

But give me the whirling wheel and a boat of air and steel

To float upon the King's highway!

Oh, give me the kiss of the morning breeze,

And the rose of the morning sky,

And the long brown road where the tired spirit's load

Slips off as the leagues go by.

[B. Royce 0]

Here is a very witty poem which I am sure you will all enjoy.

Stuart Mill on Mind and Matter, by Charles, Lord Neaves (1800-1876)

Stuart Mill on Mind and Matter,

All our old Beliefs would shatter:

Stuart Mill exerts his skill

To make an end of Mind and Matter.

The self-same tale I've surely heard,

Employed before, our faith to batter:

Has David Hume again appeared,

To run amuck at Mind and Matter?

David Hume could Mind and Matter

Ruthlessly assault and batter:

Those who Hume would not exhume

Must mean to end both Mind and Matter.

Now Mind and Matter to destroy,

Was oft proposed, at least the latter;

But David was the daring boy

Who fairly floored both_ Mind and Matter.

David Hume, both Mind and Matter,

While he lived would boldly batter:

Hume by Will bequeathed to Mill

His favorite feud with Mind and Matter.

We think we see the Things that be;

But Truth is coy, we can't get at her;

For what we spy is all my eye,

And isn't really Mind or Matter.

Hume and Mill on Mind and Matter

Swear that others merely smatter:

Sense reveals that Something feels,

But tells no tale of Mind or Matter.

Against a stone you strike your toe;

You feel it's sore, it makes a clatter:

But what you feel is all you know

Of toe, or stone, or Mind, or Matter.

Mill and Hume of Mind and Matter

Wouldn't leave a rag or tatter:

What although we feel the blow?

That doesn't show there's Mind or Matter.

We meet and mix with other men;

With women too, who sweetly chatter:

But mayn't we here be duped again,

And take our thoughts for Mind and Matter?

Sights and sounds like Mind and Matter,

Fairy forms that seem to chatter,

Are but gleams in Fancy's dreams

Of Men and Women, Mind and Matter.

Successive feelings on us seize

(As thick as falling hailstones patter);

The Chance of some return of these

Is all we mean by Mind or Matter.

Those who talk of Mind and Matter

Just a senseless jargon Patter:

What are We, or You or He?___

Dissolving views, not Mind or Matter.

We're but a train of visions vain,

Of thoughts that cheat, and hopes that flatter:

This hour's our own, the past is flown;

The rest unknown, like Mind and Matter.

Then farewell to Mind and Matter:

To the winds at once we scatter

Time and Place, and Form and Space,

And You and Me, and Mind and Matter.

We banish hence Reid's Common Sense;

We laugh at Dugald Stewart's blatter;

Sir William, too, and Mansel's crew,

We've done for you and Mind and Matter.

Speak no more of Mind and Matter,

Mill with mud may else bespatter

All your schools of silly fools,

That dare believe in Mind or Matter.

But had I skill, like Stuart Mill,

His own position I could shatter;

The weight of Mill I count as Nil---

If Mill has neither Mind nor Matter.

Mill when minus Mind and Matter,

Though he make a kind of clatter,

Must himself just mount the shelf,

And then be laid with Mind and Matter.

I'd push my logic further still

(Though this may have the look of satire):

I'd prove there's no such man as Mill,---

If Mill disproves both Mind and Matter.

If there's neither Mind nor Matter

Mill's existence, too, we shatter:

If you still believe in Mill,

Believe as well in Mind and Matter.

[B. Royce 0]

Here is a little light-hearted playful loving from the Latin of Johannes Secundus

Basia, VIII (trans. by Thomas Stanley, 1626-1678)

Not always give a melting kiss,

And smiles with pleasing whispers joined;

Nor always extasied with bliss

About my neck thy fair arms wind.

The wary lover learns by measure

To circumscribe his greatest joy;

Lest, what well-husbanded yields pleasure,

Might by repetition cloy.

When thrice three kisses I require,

Give me but two, withhold the other;

Such as cold virgins to their sire,

Or chaste Diana gives her brother.

Then wantonly snatch back thy lip,

And smoothly, as sly fishes glide

Through water giving me the slip,

Thy self in some dark corner hide.

I'll follow thee with eager haste

And having caught (as hawks their prey)

In my victorious arms held fast,

Panting for breath, bear thee away!

Then thy soft arms about me twined

Thou shalt use all thy skill to please me,

And offer all that was behind,

The poor seven kisses, to appease me.

How much mistaken wilt thou be!

For seven times seven shalt thou pay,

Whilst in my arms I fetter thee

Lest thou once more should'st get away.

Till I at last have made thee swear

By all thy beauty, all my love,

That thou again the dear severe

Revenge for the same crime would'st prove.

[B. Royce 0]

Here is the one and only true meaning of

Eternity, by Wallace Rice

A joyful cry

Of high desire,

A clasp, a kiss

Breathed thro' a sigh

In rapturous

Eternity of bliss

Momently glorious

With godlike fire,

Bear seeds of life

Beyond all casual strife;

And tho' Time fall,

Faiths die, Death call

Till hours grow perilous,

Instant, elate,

Love's shining hour

Triumphs o'er Fate,

More fortunate,

Hath mighty power

Over dim Death;

And Passion's loveliness

In tranc-ed breath

And mounting rhyme

Still hearteneth,

Our mortal lives to bless

When desperate Time

Is powerless.

_________________________________

In Swinburne's "Tristram of Lyonesse" Tristram sings this song to Iseult, whose beauty and brash thinking have stirred his admiration.

The breath between my lips of lips not mine,

Like spirit in sense that makes pure sense divine,

Is as life in them from the living sky

That entering fills my heart with blood of thine

And thee with me, while day shall live and die.

Thy soul is shed into me with thy breath,

And in my heart each heartbeat of thee saith

How in thy life the lifesprings of me lie,

Even one life to be gathered of one death

in me and thee, though day may live and die.

Ah, who knows now if in my veins it be

My blood that feels life sweet, or blood of thee,

And this thine eyesight kindled in mine eye

That shows me in thy flesh the soul of me,

For thine made mine, while day may live and die?

Ah, who knows yet if one be twain or one,

And sunlight separable again from sun,

And I from thee with all my lifesprings dry,

And thou from me with all thine heartbeats done,

Dead separate souls while day shall live and die?

I see my soul within thine eyes, and hear

My spirit in all thy pulses thrill with fear,

And in my lips the passion of thee sigh,

And music of me made in mine own ear;

Am I not thou while day shall live and die?

Art thou not I as I thy love am thou?

So let all things pass from us; we are now,

For all that was and will be, who knows why?

And all that is and is not, who knows how?

Who knows? God knows why day should live and die.

_________________________________________________

Marcus Argentarius gives us

Antigone's so dancing gay

When lip to lip and breast to breast

That this is all I have to say-----

Our lamp is witness to the rest.

__________________________________

And from Meleager---

A Wishing Cup

Glad cup, so sweet to sip,

Why hast such bliss?-----

Zenophila's soft lip

Left me a kiss.-----

O bless-ed cup, from mine

Took she such toll,

One draught would drink, not wine

But all my soul.

[B. Royce 0]

Here is a song out of our not too distant past which is still enjoyable to read aloud.

Cavalry Song, by Rossiter W. Raymond

Our bugles sound gayly. To horse and away!

And over the mountains breaks the day.

Then ho! brothers, ho! for the ride or the fight,

There are deeds to be done ere we slumber tonight!

And whether we fight or whether we fall

By sabre-stroke or rifle-ball,

The hearts of the free will remember us yet,

And our country, our country, will never forget!

Then mount and away! let the coward delight

To be lazy all day and safe all night;

Our joy is a charger, flecked with foam,

And the earth is our bed and the saddle our home!

And whether we fight or whether we fall

By sabre-stroke or rifle-ball,

The hearts of the free will remember us yet,

And our country, our country, never forget!

See yonder the ranks of the traitorous foe,

And bright in the sunshine bayonets glow!

Breathe as a man, do not sigh; think for what you would fight;

Then charge! with a will, boys, and love for the right!

And whether we fight or whether we fall

By sabre-stroke or rifle-ball,

The hearts of the free will remember us yet,

And our country, our country, never forget!

We have gathered again the red laurels of war;

We have followed the traitors fast and far;

But some who rose gayly this morn with the sun

Lie bleeding and pale on the field they have won!

But whether we fight or whether we fall

By sabre-stroke or rifle-ball,

The hearts of the free will remember us yet,

And our country, our country, never forget!

The hearts of the free will remember us yet,

And our country, and WE, will never forget!

______________________________________________

Note: I took the liberty of adding the last two lines.

[RayK 0]

Thank you B. Royce, the song from above brought back good memories of when I was in the Marine Corps.

[Nathaniel Hale 1775 0]

Carmina Burana: O Fortuna -

O Fortune,

just as the moon

you vary your state

always increasing

or decreasing; 5

the detestable life

now difficult

and then easy

with your games sharpens

poverty,

power 10

dissolves like ice.

Often great

and empty,

your revolving wheel, 15

an evil state,

vain health

always dissolving,

concealing

and veiled 20

you also strive for me

now by game,

a lost shirt

I guiltily take because of you.

Often my health 25

and my virtue

are now contrary for me,

affected

and defective

always in torment; 30

In this hour

without delay

take the pulse of my heart,

which through fate,

she overthrows my strength: 35

weep all of you with me.

By Carl Orff

[JRoberts 0]

Actually Nathan Hale, the Opera was composed by Carl Orff. The poems are a small part of a larger body of works written by medieval scholars. They were discovered in Southern Germany in the early 19th century. Carl Orff set the discovered poems to music.

That still is my favorite "Opera" of all time, however. In fact, I was listening to this piece today...

"Veris Laeta Facies"

Veris laeta facies

mundo propinquatur.

Hiemalis acies

victa iam fugatur.

in vestitu vario Flora principatur,

nemorum dulcisono

quae cantu celebratur.

Florae fusus gremio

Phoebus novo more

risum dat, hoc vario

iam stipatae flore.

Zephyrus nectareo

spirans it odore.

certatim pro bravio

curramus in amore.

Cytharizat cantico

dulcis Philomena.

flore rident vario

prata iam serena.

salit coetus avium

silvae per amoena.

chorus promit virginum

iam gaudia millena.

-------------------

In English:

"Spring Unveiled"

Spring unveils herself again,

smiling on creation:

Winter's rule of wind and rain

falls in ruination:

gaily garlanded and crowned,

Flora bids adherence:

birds rejoice and woods resound

at her reappearance.

Phoebus with his sunny smile

cleaves to Flora's breast -

both anew in flowery style

colourfully dressed:

Zephyrus eke with sweet breath

warmly wafts above us,

while we strive, as to the death,

for the prize of lovers.

Pretty girls with one accord

flock to men of letters,

looking on the lumpen horde

as below their betters.

Love draws everyone along,

willingly entwining:

Venus sharing in their throng

and the summer shining.

Charmingly the nightingale

whiles away the hours:

meadows merrily regale

all the world with flowers:

from the woods the bird-flock whirls

myriads of flights -

while a dancing ring of girls

hints of greater heights.

[B. Royce 0]

Here is more delight from Wallce Rice's "Pagan Pictures".

Unchanging Beauty, by Rufinus

Athena's hands, great hera's eyes,

My Chariclea, thine to prize,

With Aphrodite's breast of sweet

And Thetis' slender silver feet.

Who sees thy beauty shall rejoice,

Thrice blessed he who hears thy voice,

A demigod who gains thy lips,

A god indeed thy grace who clips.

___________________________________

Method, by Theocritus

When I pursue not, she'll pursue;

And when I woo not, she doth woo;

So I pretend another love

And soon shall lie her breasts above.

_______________________________________

Rigadoon, by Wallace Rice

The spring has come!

Where flowers blow

Were fields of snow;

Earth's pulses drum.

With dancing toe,

Caressing hand,

A joyous band

The blossoms go.

The Sun's touch slips

Along Earth's breast

In grasses drest;

Warm are his lips.

Oh, for his kiss

On rose and bud

In vivid flood

Of silent bliss!

Earth's fingers yearn

To clasp the god

Who stirs the sod,

Tingle and burn.

Oh, loveliness

Of touch which quests

In hope, and rests

Where all things bless!

Within the rose

Is hot unrest;

She would be blest;

Her beauty glows.

In rhythmic tide

With lyric cries

The red rose sighs;

High is her pride.

More than divine

With beauty one,

Now runs the Sun

Into his shrine.

Oh, crimson flower

In joy that parts!

Oh, heart of hearts,

That knows its hour!

The Earth and Sun

How sweet they sing

The Merry Spring

That makes them one!

Oh, heaven on earth,

How hope beguiles

Our Earth to smiles

When Spring has birth!

_________________________

[B. Royce 0]

Here are two choice bites of delight from the 17th century:

The Bracelet, by Robert Herrick

Why I tie about thy wrist,

Julia, this my silken twist,

For what other reason is't

But to show thee how in part

Thou my pretty captive art?

But thy bond-slave is my heart.

"Tis but silk that bindeth thee;

Knap the thread, and thou art free;

But 'tis otherwise with me:

I am bound, and fast bound so,

That from thee I cannot go;

If I could, I would not so.

_____________________________

On A Girdle, by Edmund Waller

That which her slender waist confined

Shall now my joyful temples bind:

No monarch but would give his crown,

His arms might do what this has done.

It was my heaven's extremest sphere,

The pale which held that lovely deer:

My joy, my grief, my hope, my love,

Did all within this circle move.

A narrow compass, and yet there

Dwelt all that's good and all that's fair:

Give me but what this ribband bound,

Take all the rest the sun goes round!

[Free Capitalist 0]

But had I skill, like Stuart Mill,

His own position I could shatter;

The weight of Mill I count as Nil---

If Mill has neither Mind nor Matter.

Mill when minus Mind and Matter,

Though he make a kind of clatter,

Must himself just mount the shelf,

And then be laid with Mind and Matter.

[...]

If there's neither Mind nor Matter

Mill's existence, too, we shatter:

If you still believe in Mill,

Believe as well in Mind and Matter.

Awesome poem, B. Royce, thanks!

[B. Royce 0]

You're very welcome, FC.

[B. Royce 0]

Here is a late 19th or early 20th century poem expressing a genuinely optimistic (American) outlook. I'm sure everyone will recognize the town in the 4th stanza.

Lines On Mountain Villages, by Sunset Joe

O wondrous scene is Meeker,

Where rims of ranges frown,

Rewards await the seeker

In Alamosa's town.

Famed Creede by icy river,

Is praised both far and wide,

Montrose blessed by the Giver,

Grander still, is Telluride.

A lovely picture is Boulder,

Bewitching in delight,

With Aspen 'neath the shoulder,

Of azure mountain bright.

Salida is a city,

In every way unique,

And Crested Butte is pretty,

Near by to snowy peak.

Red Mountain's mystic story,

With Rico's golden vale,

Also recalls the glory,

Of Silverton's steep trail.

Enchanted La Veta ever,

Far Monte Vista too,

While Buena Vista never

Will be lost to our view.

When choosing by selection,

Our hearts alone obey,

For us there is perfection,

In only fair Ouray.

Divinest hope abounding,

Gem of the Golden West;

Our tributes are resounding,

For the village we love best.

[B. Royce 0]

If you are fed up to here with news stories of self-pitying victims, here is a sprightly antidote.

The Little Johnny Mine, by Daisy L. Detrick (written around 1890)

Old Leadvillw was booming in eighty-eight;

Molly Tobin was lured by its golden bait.

She set up her tent where one street showed a gap

And lettered a sign high above the tent flap.

The prospectors brought her their laundry and mending

And Johnny came too, just as Fate was intending.

No Adonis was Johnny; red-haired and uncouth,

Full twenty years past the first flush of his youth,

But "a way with the women". Such a strange thing is life.

Three weeks from that day he made Molly his wife!

Now the lank buckskin bag in his faded old jeans

Contained scarcely "dust" for their bacon and beans,

There were two happy months -playing poverty's game,

Then Johnny discovered pay dirt on his claim.

It assayed. The experts confirmed it real gold.

Three hundred grand offered---a fortune! He sold.

"It's got to be cash though," was Johnny's demand,

"Three hundred news bills to put in the hand

Of the purtiest gal in this hull ding danged town,

An' that gal is my wife, Mrs. Johnny J. Brown."

He clutched the plump roll, then rushed home to find Molly;

Kicked open the door; bellowed, "Rich, rich, by golly!

Got t' celebrate some at the Saddle Rock Bar."

Little Molly was dazed, but she first tucked away

In the kitchen stove oven (now cold for the day)

The bewildering roll. Then to calm her poor head

She blew out the light and slipped into her bed.

Near dawn a friend opened the rear shanty door

And eased Johnny down to the bare kitchen floor.

Such a cold place to sleep! It would rouse Johnny's ire

To disturb his young wife, so---he built a good fire!

The crackling grew louder and Molly awoke,

But the three hundred gtand had all gone up in smoke!

Soon her wails wakened Johnny. She sobbed out the tale,

But he laughed. "No use bawlin' 'bout burnin' the kale.

I'll find yo' some more. Here, we've got the stove hot,

Let's boil up some coffee right strong in the pot."

Now the very next day Johnny staked out a claim;

It was just for luck, maybe, he gave it HIS name.

The world long has known of that fabulous "find",

The incredible gold vein that later was mined.

To the day of his death with an oath Johnny'd swear

That a certain FIRE made him a danged millionaire!

[B. Royce 0]

I have just discovered Forum member Myrhaf's blog, and his poem "The Towers of Ilium". It is representative of the art of poetry at its highest level. I have posted an appreciative commentary below the poem.

http://myrhaf.blogspot.com/2005/11/towers-of-ilium.html