Shapes of Clay

  And Heaven without it were a bore.'
  'O, stuff!—come in. You'll make,' said Pete,
  'A hell where'er you set your feet.'
1885.

CONTEMPLATION.

  I muse upon the distant town
    In many a dreamy mood.
  Above my head the sunbeams crown
    The graveyard's giant rood.
  The lupin blooms among the tombs.
    The quail recalls her brood.
  Ah, good it is to sit and trace
    The shadow of the cross;
  It moves so still from place to place
    O'er marble, bronze and moss;
  With graves to mark upon its arc
    Our time's eternal loss.
  And sweet it is to watch the bee
    That reve's in the rose,
  And sense the fragrance floating free
    On every breeze that blows
  O'er many a mound, where, safe and sound,
    Mine enemies repose.

CREATION.

  God dreamed—the suns sprang flaming into place,
  And sailing worlds with many a venturous race!
  He woke—His smile alone illumined space.

BUSINESS.

  Two villains of the highest rank
  Set out one night to rob a bank.
  They found the building, looked it o'er,
  Each window noted, tried each door,
  Scanned carefully the lidded hole
  For minstrels to cascade the coal—
  In short, examined five-and-twenty
  Good paths from poverty to plenty.
  But all were sealed, they saw full soon,
  Against the minions of the moon.
  'Enough,' said one: 'I'm satisfied.'
  The other, smiling fair and wide,
  Said: 'I'm as highly pleased as you:
  No burglar ever can get through.
  Fate surely prospers our design—
  The booty all is yours and mine.'
  So, full of hope, the following day
  To the exchange they took their way
  And bought, with manner free and frank,
  Some stock of that devoted bank;
  And they became, inside the year,
  One President and one Cashier.
  Their crime I can no further trace—
  The means of safety to embrace,
  I overdrew and left the place.

A POSSIBILITY.

  If the wicked gods were willing
    (Pray it never may be true!)
  That a universal chilling
      Should ensue
  Of the sentiment of loving,—
    If they made a great undoing
  Of the plan of turtle-doving,
    Then farewell all poet-lore,
      Evermore.
  If there were no more of billing
    There would be no more of cooing
  And we all should be but owls—
      Lonely fowls