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Famous Long Success Poems. Long Success Poetry by Famous Poets

Famous Long Success Poems. Long Success Poetry by Famous Poets. A collection of the all-time best Success long poems

See also: Long Member Poems

by William Topaz McGonagall

A Tribute to Dr. Murison

 Success to the good and skilful Dr Murison,
For golden opinions he has won
From his patients one and all,
And from myself, McGonagall.
He is very skilful and void of pride; He was so to me when at my bedside, When I turned badly on the 25th of July, And was ill with inflammation, and like to die.
He told me at once what was ailing me; He said I had been writing too much poetry, And from writing poetry I would have to refrain, Because I was suffering from inflammation on the brain.
And he has been very good to me in my distress, Good people of Dundee, I honestly confess, And to all his patients as well as me Within the Royal city of Dundee.
He is worthy of the public's support, And to his shop they should resort To get his advice one and all; Believe me on him ye ought to call.
He is very affable in temper and a skilful man, And to cure all his patients he tries all he can; And I wish him success for many a long day, For he has saved me from dying, I venture to say; The kind treatment I received surpasses all Is the honest confession of McGonagall.

by Robert William Service


 At school I never gained a prize,
Proving myself the model ass;
Yet how I watched the wistful eyes,
And cheered my mates who topped the class.
No envy in my heart I found, Yet bone was worthier to own Those precious books in vellum bound, Than I, a dreamer and a drone.
No prize at school I ever gained (Shirking my studies, I suppose): Yes, I remember being caned For lack of love of Latin prose.
For algebra I won no praise, In grammar I was far from bright: Yet, oh, how Poetry would raise In me a rapture of delight! I never gained a prize at school; The dullard's cap adorned my head; My masters wrote me down a fool, And yet - I'm sorry they are dead.
I'd like to go to them and say: "Yours is indeed a tricky trade.
My honoured classmates, where are they? Yet I, the dunce, brave books have made.
" Oh, I am old and worn and grey, And maybe have not long to live; Yet 'tis my hope at some Prize Day At my old school the Head will give A tome or two of mine to crown Some pupil's well-deserved success - Proving a scapegrace and a clown May win at last to worthiness.

by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Momus God Of Laughter

 Though with gods the world is cumbered, 
Gods unnamed, and gods unnumbered, 
Never god was known to be
Who had not his devotee.
So I dedicate to mine, Here in verse, my temple-shrine.
‘Tis not Ares, - mighty Mars, Who can give success in wars.
‘Tis not Morpheus, who doth keep Guard above us while we sleep, ‘Tis not Venus, she whose duty ‘Tis to give us love and beauty; Hail to these, and others, after Momus, gleesome god of laughter.
Quirinus would guard my health, Plutus would insure me wealth; Mercury looks after trade, Hera smiles on youth and maid.
All are kind, I own their worth, After Momus, god of mirth.
Though Apollo, out of spite, Hides away his face of light, Though Minerva looks askance, Deigning me no smiling glance, Kings and queens may envy me While I claim the god of glee.
Wisdom wearies, Love had wings – Wealth makes burdens, Pleasure stings, Glory proves a thorny crown – So all gifts the gods throw down Bring their pains and troubles after; All save Momus, god of laughter.
He alone gives constant joy.
Hail to Momus, happy boy.

by Robert William Service

A Song Of Success

 Ho! we were strong, we were swift, we were brave.
Youth was a challenge, and Life was a fight.
All that was best in us gladly we gave, Sprang from the rally, and leapt for the height.
Smiling is Love in a foam of Spring flowers: Harden our hearts to him -- on let us press! Oh, what a triumph and pride shall be ours! See where it beacons, the star of success! Cares seem to crowd on us -- so much to do; New fields to conquer, and time's on the wing.
Grey hairs are showing, a wrinkle or two; Somehow our footstep is losing its spring.
Pleasure's forsaken us, Love ceased to smile; Youth has been funeralled; Age travels fast.
Sometimes we wonder: is it worth while? There! we have gained to the summit at last.
Aye, we have triumphed! Now must we haste, Revel in victory .
why! what is wrong? Life's choicest vintage is flat to the taste -- Are we too late? Have we laboured too long? Wealth, power, fame we hold .
ah! but the truth: Would we not give this vain glory of ours For one mad, glad year of glorious youth, Life in the Springtide, and Love in the flowers.

by William Topaz McGonagall

A Tribute to Mr J. Graham Henderson The Worlds Fair Judge

 Thrice welcome home to Hawick, Mr J.
Graham Henderson, For by your Scotch tweeds a great honour you have won; By exhibiting your beautiful tweeds at the World's Fair You have been elected judge of Australian and American wools while there.
You had to pass a strict examination on the wool trade, But you have been victorious, and not the least afraid, And has been made judge of wools by Sir Henry Truman Good, And was thanked by Sir Henry where he stood.
You have been asked by Sir Henry to lecture on wools there, And you have consented to do so, which made your audience stare When you let them see the difference betwixt good wool and bad; You'll be sure to gain fresh honours, they will feel so glad.
To think they have found a clever man indeed, That knows good wool and how to manufacture Scotch tweed, I wish you success for many a long day, Because your Scotch tweeds are the best, I venture to say.
May you always be prosperous wherever you go, Always gaining fresh friends, but never a foe, Because you are good and a very clever man, And to gainsay it there's few people can.

by Robert William Service


 He gave a picture exhibition,
Hiring a little empty shop.
Above its window: FREE ADMISSION Cajoled the passers-by to stop; Just to admire - no need to purchase, Although his price might have been low: But no proud artist ever urges Potential buyers at his show.
Of course he badly needed money, But more he needed moral aid.
Some people thought his pictures funny, Too ultra-modern, I'm afraid.
His painting was experimental, Which no poor artist can afford- That is, if he would pay the rental And guarantee his roof and board.
And so some came and saw and sniggered, And some a puzzled brow would crease; And some objected: "Well, I'm jiggered!" What price Picasso and Matisse? The artist sensitively quivered, And stifled many a bitter sigh, But day by day his hopes were shivered For no one ever sought to buy.
And then he had a brilliant notion: Half of his daubs he labeled: SOLD.
And lo! he viewed with queer emotion A public keen and far from cold.
Then (strange it is beyond the telling), He saw the people round him press: His paintings went - they still are selling.
Well, nothing succeeds like success.

by Edgar Lee Masters

Elliott Hawkins

 I looked like Abraham Lincoln.
I was one of you, Spoon River, in all fellowship, But standing for the rights of property and for order.
A regular church attendant, Sometimes appearing in your town meetings to warn you Against the evils of discontent and envy, And to denounce those who tried to destroy the Union, And to point to the peril of the Knights of Labor.
My success and my example are inevitable influences In your young men and in generations to come, In spite of attacks of newspapers like the Clarion; A regular visitor at Springfield, When the Legislature was in session, To prevent raids upon the railroads, And the men building up the state.
Trusted by them and by you, Spoon River, equally In spite of the whispers that I was a lobbyist.
Moving quietly through the world, rich and courted.
Dying at last, of course, but lying here Under a stone with an open book carved upon it And the words "Of such is the Kingdom of Heaven.
" And now, you world-savers, who reaped nothing in life And in death have neither stones nor epitaphs, How do you like your silence from mouths stopped With the dust of my triumphant career?

by Robert William Service


 You ask me what I call Success -
It is, I wonder, Happiness?

It is not wealth, it is not fame,
Nor rank, nor power nor honoured name.
It is not triumph in the Arts - Best-selling books or leading parts.
It is not plaudits of the crowd, The flame of flags, processions proud.
The panegyrics of the Press are but the mirage of Success.
You may have all of them, my friend, Yet be a failure in the end.
I've know proud Presidents of banks Who've fought their way up from the ranks, And party leaders of renown Who played as boys in Shantytown.
Strong, self-made men, yet seek to trace Benignity in any face; Grim purpose, mastery maybe, Yet never sweet serenity; Never contentment, thoughts that bless - That mellow joy I deem Success.
The haply seek some humble hearth, Quite poor in goods yet rich in mirth, And see a man of common clay Watching his little ones at play; A laughing fellow full of cheer, Health, strength and faith that mocks at fear; Who for his happiness relies On joys he lights in other eyes; He loves his home and envies none.
Who happier beneath the sun? Aye, though he walk in lowly ways, Shining Success has crowned his days.

by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Not Quite The Same

 Not quite the same the springtime seems to me, 
Since that sad season when in separate ways
Our paths diverged.
There are no more such days As dawned for us in that last time when we Dwelt in the realm of dreams, illusive dreams; Spring may be just as fair now, but it seems Not quite the same.
Not quite the same in life, since we two parted, Knowing it best to go our ways alone.
Fair measures of success we both have known, And pleasant hours; and yet something departed Which gold, nor fame, nor anything we win, Can all replace.
And either life has been Not quite the same.
Love is not quite the same, although each heart Has formed new ties, that are both sweet and true; But that wild rapture, which of old we knew, Seems to have been a something set apart With that lost dream.
There is no passion, now, Mixed with this later love, which seems, somehow, Not quite the same.
Not quite the same am I.
My inner being Reasons and knows that all is for the best.
Yet vague regrets stir always in my breast, As my souls eyes turn sadly backward, seeing The vanished self, that evermore must be, This side of what we call eternity, Not quite the same.

by Robert William Service

Making Good

 No man can be a failure if he thinks he's a success;
he may not own his roof-tree overhead,
He may be on his uppers and have hocked his evening dress -
(Financially speaking - in the red)
He may have chronic shortage to repay the old home mortgage,
And almost be a bankrupt in his biz.
, But though he skips his dinner, And each day he's growing thinner, If he thinks he is a winner, Then he is.
But when I say Success I mean the sublimated kind; A man may gain it yet be on the dole.
To me it's music of the heart and sunshine of the mind, Serenity and sweetness of the soul.
You may not have a brace of bucks to jingle in your jeans, Far less the dough to buy a motor car; But though the row you're hoeing May be grim, ungodly going, If you think the skies are glowing - Then they are.
For a poor man may be wealthy and a millionaire may fail, It all depends upon the point of view.
It's the sterling of your spirit tips the balance of the scale, It's optimism, and it's up to you.
For what I figure as success is simple Happiness, The consummate contentment of your mood: You may toil with brain and sinew, And though little wealth is win you, If there's health and hope within you - You've made good.

by Rupert Brooke

The Chilterns

 Your hands, my dear, adorable,
Your lips of tenderness
-- Oh, I've loved you faithfully and well,
Three years, or a bit less.
It wasn't a success.
Thank God, that's done! and I'll take the road, Quit of my youth and you, The Roman road to Wendover By Tring and Lilley Hoo, As a free man may do.
For youth goes over, the joys that fly, The tears that follow fast; And the dirtiest things we do must lie Forgotten at the last; Even Love goes past.
What's left behind I shall not find, The splendour and the pain; The splash of sun, the shouting wind, And the brave sting of rain, I may not meet again.
But the years, that take the best away, Give something in the end; And a better friend than love have they, For none to mar or mend, That have themselves to friend.
I shall desire and I shall find The best of my desires; The autumn road, the mellow wind That soothes the darkening shires.
And laughter, and inn-fires.
White mist about the black hedgerows, The slumbering Midland plain, The silence where the clover grows, And the dead leaves in the lane, Certainly, these remain.
And I shall find some girl perhaps, And a better one than you, With eyes as wise, but kindlier, And lips as soft, but true.
And I daresay she will do.

by William Topaz McGonagall

A Requisition to the Queen

 Smiths Buildings No.
19 Patons Lane, Dundee.
Sept the 6th.
Most August! Empress of India, and of great Britain the Queen, I most humbly beg your pardon, hoping you will not think it mean That a poor poet that lives in Dundee, Would be so presumptous to write unto Thee Most lovely Empress of India, and Englands generous Queen, I send you an Address, I have written on Scotlands Bard, Hoping that you will accept it, and not be with me to hard, Nor fly into a rage, but be as Kind and Condescending As to give me your Patronage Beautiful Empress, of India, and Englands Gracious Queen, I send you a Shakespearian Address written by me.
And I think if your Majesty reads it, right pleased you will be.
And my heart it will leap with joy, if it is patronized by Thee.
Most Mighty Empress, of India, and Englands beloved Queen, Most Handsome to be Seen.
I wish you every Success.
And that heaven may you bless.
For your Kindness to the poor while they are in distress.
I hope the Lord will protect you while living And hereafter when your Majesty is .
I hope the Lord above will place an eternal Crown! upon your Head.
I am your Gracious Majesty ever faithful to Thee, William McGonagall, The Poor Poet, That lives in Dundee.

by Gerard Manley Hopkins


 How lovely the elder brother's
Life all laced in the other's,
Lóve-laced!—what once I well
Witnessed; so fortune fell.
When Shrovetide, two years gone, Our boys' plays brought on Part was picked for John, Young Jóhn: then fear, then joy Ran revel in the elder boy.
Their night was come now; all Our company thronged the hall; Henry, by the wall, Beckoned me beside him: I came where called, and eyed him By meanwhiles; making my play Turn most on tender byplay.
For, wrung all on love's rack, My lad, and lost in Jack, Smiled, blushed, and bit his lip; Or drove, with a diver's dip, Clutched hands down through clasped knees— Truth's tokens tricks like these, Old telltales, with what stress He hung on the imp's success.
Now the other was bráss-bóld: Hé had no work to hold His heart up at the strain; Nay, roguish ran the vein.
Two tedious acts were past; Jack's call and cue at last; When Henry, heart-forsook, Dropped eyes and dared not look.
Eh, how áll rúng! Young dog, he did give tongue! But Harry—in his hands he has flung His tear-tricked cheeks of flame For fond love and for shame.
Ah Nature, framed in fault, There 's comfort then, there 's salt; Nature, bad, base, and blind, Dearly thou canst be kind; There dearly thén, deárly, I'll cry thou canst be kind.

by Francesco Petrarch



Io pensava assai destro esser sull' ale.


I thought me apt and firm of wing to rise
(Not of myself, but him who trains us all)
In song, to numbers fitting the fair thrall
Which Love once fasten'd and which Death unties.
Slow now and frail, the task too sorely tries,
As a great weight upon a sucker small:
"Who leaps," I said, "too high may midway fall:
Man ill accomplishes what Heaven denies.
So far the wing of genius ne'er could fly—
Poor style like mine and faltering tongue much less—
As Nature rose, in that rare fabric, high.
Love follow'd Nature with such full success
In gracing her, no claim could I advance
Even to look, and yet was bless'd by chance.

by Francesco Petrarch



L' alma mia fiamma oltra le belle bella.


My noble flame—more fair than fairest are
Whom kind Heaven here has e'er in favour shown—
Before her time, alas for me! has flown
To her celestial home and parent star.
[Pg 251]I seem but now to wake; wherein a bar
She placed on passion 'twas for good alone,
As, with a gentle coldness all her own,
She waged with my hot wishes virtuous war.
My thanks on her for such wise care I press,
That with her lovely face and sweet disdain
She check'd my love and taught me peace to gain.
O graceful artifice! deserved success!
I with my fond verse, with her bright eyes she,
Glory in her, she virtue got in me.

by Robert William Service


 Dusting my books I spent a busy day:
Not ancient toes, time-hallowed and unread,
but modern volumes, classics in their way,
whose makers now are numbered with the dead;
Men of a generation more than mine,
With whom I tattled, battled and drank wine.
I worshipped them, rejoiced in their success, Grudging them not the gold that goes with fame.
I thought them near-immortal, I confess, And naught could dim the glory of each name.
How I perused their pages with delight! .
To-day I peer with sadness in my sight.
For, death has pricked each to a flat balloon.
A score of years have gone, they're clean forgot.
Who would have visioned such a dreary doom? By God! I'd like to burn the blasted lot.
Only, old books are mighty hard to burn: They char, they flicker and their pages turn.
And as you stand to poke them in the flame, You see a living line that stabs the heart.
Brave writing that! It seems a cursed shame That to a bonfire it should play it's part.
Poor book! You're crying, and you're not alone: Some day someone will surely burn my own.
No, I will dust my books and put them by, Yet never look into their leaves again; For scarce a soul remembers them save I, Re-reading them would only give me pain.
So I will sigh, and say with curling lip: Futility! Thy name is authorship.

by Robert William Service

Shakespeare And Cervantes

 Obit 23rd April 1616

Is it not strange that on this common date,
Two titans of their age, aye of all Time,
Together should renounce this mortal state,
And rise like gods, unsullied and sublime?
Should mutually render up the ghost,
And hand n hand join Jove's celestial host?

What wondrous welcome from the scribes on high!
Homer and Virgil would be waiting there;
Plato and Aristotle standing nigh;
Petrarch and Dante greet the peerless pair:
And as in harmony they make their bow,
Horace might quip: "Great timing, you'll allow.
" Imagine this transcendant team arrive At some hilarious banquet of the gods! Their nations battled when they were alive, And they were bitter foes - but what's the odd? Actor and soldier, happy hand in hand, By death close-linked, like loving brothers stand.
But how diverse! Our Will had gold and gear, Chattels and land, the starshine of success; The bleak Castilian fought with casque and spear, Passing his life in prisons - more or less.
The Bard of Avon was accounted rich; Cervantes often bedded in a ditch.
Yet when I slough this flesh, if I could meet By sweet, fantastic fate one of these two, In languorous Elysian retreat, Which would I choose? Fair reader, which would you? Well, though our William more divinely wrote, By gad! the lousy Spaniard has my vote.

by William Topaz McGonagall

Lines in Praise of Mr. J. Graham Henderson Hawick

 Success to Mr J.
Graham Henderson, who is a good man, And to gainsay it there's few people can, I say so from my own experience, And experience is a great defence.
He is a good man, I venture to say, Which I declare to the world without dismay, Because he's given me a suit of Tweeds, magnificent to see, So good that it cannot be surpassed in Dundee.
The suit is the best of Tweed cloth in every way, And will last me for many a long day; It's really good, and in no way bad, And will help to make my heart feel glad.
He's going to send some goods to the World's Fair, And I hope of patronage he will get the biggest share; Because his Tweed cloth is the best I ever did see, In the year of our Lord eighteen hundred and ninety-three.
At the International Exhibition, and the Isle of Man Exhibition, He got a gold medal from each, in recognition Of his Scotch Tweeds, so good and grand, Which cannot be surpassed in fair Scotland.
Therefore, good people, his goods are really grand, And manufactured at Weensforth Mill, Hawick, Scotland; Where there's always plenty of Tweeds on hand, For the ready cash at the people's command.
Mr Tocher measured me for the suit, And it is very elegant, which no one will dispute, And I hope Mr Henry in Reform Street Will gain customers by it, the suit is so complete.

by William Topaz McGonagall

The Newport Railway

 Success to the Newport Railway,
Along the braes of the Silvery Tay,
And to Dundee straghtway,
Across the Railway Bridge o' the Silvery Tay,
Which was opened on the 12th of May,
In the year of our Lord 1879,
Which will clear all expenses in a very short time
Because the thrifty housewives of Newport
To Dundee will often resort,
Which will be to them profit and sport,
By bringing cheap tea, bread, and jam,
And also some of Lipton's ham,
Which will make their hearts feel light and gay,
And cause them to bless the opening day
Of the Newport Railway.
The train is most beautiful to be seen, With its long, white curling cloud of steam, As the Train passes on her way Along the bonnie braes o' the Silvery Tay.
And if the people of Dundee Should feel inclined to have a spree, I am sure 'twill fill their hearts with glee By crossing o'er to Newport, And there they can have excellent sport, By viewing the scenery beautiful and gay, During the livelong summer day, And then they can return at night With spirits light and gay, By the Newport Railway, By night or by day, Across the Railway Gridge o' the Silvery Tay.
Success to the undertakers of the Newport Railway, Hoping the Lord will their labours repay, And prove a blessing to the people For many a long day Who live near by Newport On the bonnie braes o' the Silvery Tay.

by Joyce Kilmer


 When I am tired of earnest men,
Intense and keen and sharp and clever,
Pursuing fame with brush or pen
Or counting metal disks forever,
Then from the halls of Shadowland
Beyond the trackless purple sea
Old Martin's ghost comes back to stand
Beside my desk and talk to me.
Still on his delicate pale face A quizzical thin smile is showing, His cheeks are wrinkled like fine lace, His kind blue eyes are gay and glowing.
He wears a brilliant-hued cravat, A suit to match his soft grey hair, A rakish stick, a knowing hat, A manner blithe and debonair.
How good that he who always knew That being lovely was a duty, Should have gold halls to wander through And should himself inhabit beauty.
How like his old unselfish way To leave those halls of splendid mirth And comfort those condemned to stay Upon the dull and sombre earth.
Some people ask: "What cruel chance Made Martin's life so sad a story?" Martin? Why, he exhaled romance, And wore an overcoat of glory.
A fleck of sunlight in the street, A horse, a book, a girl who smiled, Such visions made each moment sweet For this receptive ancient child.
Because it was old Martin's lot To be, not make, a decoration, Shall we then scorn him, having not His genius of appreciation? Rich joy and love he got and gave; His heart was merry as his dress; Pile laurel wreaths upon his grave Who did not gain, but was, success!

by Anne Bradstreet

Upon My Dear and Loving Husband his Going into England Jan. 16

 O thou Most High who rulest all 
And hear'st the prayers of thine, 
O hearken, Lord, unto my suit 
And my petition sign.
Into Thy everlasting arms Of mercy I commend Thy servant, Lord.
Keep and preserve My husband, my dear friend.
At Thy command, O Lord, he went, Nor nought could keep him back.
Then let Thy promise joy his heart, O help and be not slack.
Uphold my heart in Thee, O God.
Thou art my strength and stay, Thou see'st how weak and frail I am, Hide not Thy face away.
I in obedience to Thy will Thou knowest did submit.
It was my duty so to do; O Lord, accept of it.
Unthankfulness for mercies past Impute Thou not to me.
O Lord, Thou know'st my weak desire Was to sing praise to Thee.
Lord, be Thou pilot to the ship And send them prosperous gales.
In storms and sickness, Lord, preserve.
Thy goodness never fails.
Unto Thy work he hath in hand Lord, grant Thou good success And favour in their eyes to whom He shall make his address.
Remember, Lord, Thy folk whom Thou To wilderness hast brought; Let not Thine own inheritance Be sold away for nought.
But tokens of Thy favour give, With joy send back my dear That I and all Thy servants may Rejoice with heavenly cheer.
Lord, let my eyes see once again Him whom Thou gavest me That we together may sing praise Forever unto Thee.
And the remainder of our days Shall consecrated be With an engaged heart to sing All praises unto Thee.

by Howard Nemerov

The Goose Fish

 On the long shore, lit by the moon
To show them properly alone,
Two lovers suddenly embraced
So that their shadows were as one.
The ordinary night was graced For them by the swift tide of blood That silently they took at flood, And for a little time they prized Themselves emparadised.
Then, as if shaken by stage-fright Beneath the hard moon's bony light, They stood together on the sand Embarrassed in each other's sight But still conspiring hand in hand, Until they saw, there underfoot, As though the world had found them out, The goose fish turning up, though dead, His hugely grinning head.
There in the china light he lay, Most ancient and corrupt and grey.
They hesitated at his smile, Wondering what it seemed to say To lovers who a little while Before had thought to understand, By violence upon the sand, The only way that could be known To make a world their own.
It was a wide and moony grin Together peaceful and obscene; They knew not what he would express, So finished a comedian He might mean failure or success, But took it for an emblem of Their sudden, new and guilty love To be observed by, when they kissed, That rigid optimist.
So he became their patriarch, Dreadfully mild in the half-dark.
His throat that the sand seemed to choke, His picket teeth, these left their mark But never did explain the joke That so amused him, lying there While the moon went down to disappear Along the still and tilted track That bears the zodiac.

by Gerard Manley Hopkins

The Alchemist in the City

 My window shews the travelling clouds, 
Leaves spent, new seasons, alter'd sky, 
The making and the melting crowds: 
The whole world passes; I stand by.
They do not waste their meted hours, But men and masters plan and build: I see the crowning of their towers, And happy promises fulfill'd.
And I - perhaps if my intent Could count on prediluvian age, The labours I should then have spent Might so attain their heritage, But now before the pot can glow With not to be discover'd gold, At length the bellows shall not blow, The furnace shall at last be cold.
Yet it is now too late to heal The incapable and cumbrous shame Which makes me when with men I deal More powerless than the blind or lame.
No, I should love the city less Even than this my thankless lore; But I desire the wilderness Or weeded landslips of the shore.
I walk my breezy belvedere To watch the low or levant sun, I see the city pigeons veer, I mark the tower swallows run Between the tower-top and the ground Below me in the bearing air; Then find in the horizon-round One spot and hunger to be there.
And then I hate the most that lore That holds no promise of success; Then sweetest seems the houseless shore, Then free and kind the wilderness, Or ancient mounds that cover bones, Or rocks where rockdoves do repair And trees of terebinth and stones And silence and a gulf of air.
There on a long and squared height After the sunset I would lie, And pierce the yellow waxen light With free long looking, ere I die.

by Ella Wheeler Wilcox


 There is much in life that makes me sorry as I journey 
down life’s way.
And I seem to see more pathos in poor human Lives each day.
I’m sorry for the strong brave men, who shield the weak from harm, But who, in their own troubled hours find no Protecting arm.
I’m sorry for the victors who have reached success, to stand As targets for the arrows shot by envious failure’s hand.
I’m sorry for the generous hearts who freely shared their wine, But drink alone the gall of tears in fortune’s drear decline.
I’m sorry for the souls who build their own fame’s funeral pyre, Derided by the scornful throng like ice deriding fire.
I’m sorry for the conquering ones tho know not sin’s defeat, But daily tread down fierce desire ‘neath scorched and bleeding feet.
I’m sorry for the anguished hearts that break with passions strain, But I’m sorrier for the poor starved souls that Never knew love’s pain.
Who hunger on through barren years not tasting joys they crave, For sadder far is such a lot than weeping o’er a grave.
I’m sorry for the souls that come unwelcomed into birth, I’m sorry for the unloved old who cumber up the earth.
I’m sorry for the suffering poor in life’s great maelstrom hurled, In truth I’m sorry for them all who make this aching world.
But underneath whate’er seems sad and is not understood, I know there lies hid from our sight a mighty germ of good.
And this belief stands firm by me, my sermon, motto, text – The sorriest things in this life will seem grandest in the next.

by Vachel Lindsay



Within the town of Buffalo
Are prosy men with leaden eyes.
Like ants they worry to and fro, (Important men, in Buffalo.
) But only twenty miles away A deathless glory is at play: Niagara, Niagara.
The women buy their lace and cry: — "O such a delicate design," And over ostrich feathers sigh, By counters there, in Buffalo.
The children haunt the trinket shops, They buy false-faces, bells, and tops, Forgetting great Niagara.
Within the town of Buffalo Are stores with garnets, sapphires, pearls, Rubies, emeralds aglow, — Opal chains in Buffalo, Cherished symbols of success.
They value not your rainbow dress: — Niagara, Niagara.
The shaggy meaning of her name This Buffalo, this recreant town, Sharps and lawyers prune and tame: Few pioneers in Buffalo; Except young lovers flushed and fleet And winds hallooing down the street: "Niagara, Niagara.
" The journalists are sick of ink: Boy prodigals are lost in wine, By night where white and red lights blink, The eyes of Death, in Buffalo.
And only twenty miles away Are starlit rocks and healing spray: — Niagara, Niagara.
Above the town a tiny bird, A shining speck at sleepy dawn, Forgets the ant-hill so absurd, This self-important Buffalo.
Descending twenty miles away He bathes his wings at break of day — Niagara, Niagara.
II What marching men of Buffalo Flood the streets in rash crusade? Fools-to-free-the-world, they go, Primeval hearts from Buffalo.
Red cataracts of France today Awake, three thousand miles away An echo of Niagara, The cataract Niagara.