Best Famous Sweaty Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Sweaty poems. This is a select list of the best famous Sweaty poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Sweaty poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of sweaty poems.

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• All Famous Sweaty Poems

Written by Walt Whitman | A Carol of Harvest for 1867 1 A SONG of the good green grass! A song no more of the city streets; A song of farms—a song of the soil of fields. A song with the smell of sun-dried hay, where the nimble pitchers handle the pitch-fork; A song tasting of new wheat, and of fresh-husk’d maize. 2 For the lands, and for these passionate days, and for myself, Now I awhile return to thee, O soil of Autumn fields, Reclining on thy breast, giving myself to thee, Answering the pulses of thy sane and equable heart, Tuning a verse for thee. O Earth, that hast no voice, confide to me a voice! O harvest of my lands! O boundless summer growths! O lavish, brown, parturient earth! O infinite, teeming womb! A verse to seek, to see, to narrate thee. 3 Ever upon this stage, Is acted God’s calm, annual drama, Gorgeous processions, songs of birds, Sunrise, that fullest feeds and freshens most the soul, The heaving sea, the waves upon the shore, the musical, strong waves, The woods, the stalwart trees, the slender, tapering trees, The flowers, the grass, the lilliput, countless armies of the grass, The heat, the showers, the measureless pasturages, The scenery of the snows, the winds’ free orchestra, The stretching, light-hung roof of clouds—the clear cerulean, and the bulging, silvery fringes, The high dilating stars, the placid, beckoning stars, The moving flocks and herds, the plains and emerald meadows, The shows of all the varied lands, and all the growths and products. 4 Fecund America! To-day, Thou art all over set in births and joys! Thou groan’st with riches! thy wealth clothes thee as with a swathing garment! Thou laughest loud with ache of great possessions! A myriad-twining life, like interlacing vines, binds all thy vast demesne! As some huge ship, freighted to water’s edge, thou ridest into port! As rain falls from the heaven, and vapors rise from earth, so have the precious values fallen upon thee, and risen out of thee! Thou envy of the globe! thou miracle! Thou, bathed, choked, swimming in plenty! Thou lucky Mistress of the tranquil barns! Thou Prairie Dame that sittest in the middle, and lookest out upon thy world, and lookest East, and lookest West! Dispensatress, that by a word givest a thousand miles—that giv’st a million farms, and missest nothing! Thou All-Acceptress—thou Hospitable—(thou only art hospitable, as God is hospitable.) 5 When late I sang, sad was my voice; Sad were the shows around me, with deafening noises of hatred, and smoke of conflict; In the midst of the armies, the Heroes, I stood, Or pass’d with slow step through the wounded and dying. But now I sing not War, Nor the measur’d march of soldiers, nor the tents of camps, Nor the regiments hastily coming up, deploying in line of battle. No more the dead and wounded; No more the sad, unnatural shows of War. Ask’d room those flush’d immortal ranks? the first forth-stepping armies? Ask room, alas, the ghastly ranks—the armies dread that follow’d. 6 (Pass—pass, ye proud brigades! So handsome, dress’d in blue—with your tramping, sinewy legs; With your shoulders young and strong—with your knapsacks and your muskets; —How elate I stood and watch’d you, where, starting off, you march’d! Pass;—then rattle, drums, again! Scream, you steamers on the river, out of whistles loud and shrill, your salutes! For an army heaves in sight—O another gathering army! Swarming, trailing on the rear—O you dread, accruing army! O you regiments so piteous, with your mortal diarrhoea! with your fever! O my land’s maimed darlings! with the plenteous bloody bandage and the crutch! Lo! your pallid army follow’d!) 7 But on these days of brightness, On the far-stretching beauteous landscape, the roads and lanes, the high-piled farm-wagons, and the fruits and barns, Shall the dead intrude? Ah, the dead to me mar not—they fit well in Nature; They fit very well in the landscape, under the trees and grass, And along the edge of the sky, in the horizon’s far margin. Nor do I forget you, departed; Nor in winter or summer, my lost ones; But most, in the open air, as now, when my soul is rapt and at peace—like pleasing phantoms, Your dear memories, rising, glide silently by me. 8 I saw the day, the return of the Heroes; (Yet the Heroes never surpass’d, shall never return; Them, that day, I saw not.) I saw the interminable Corps—I saw the processions of armies, I saw them approaching, defiling by, with divisions, Streaming northward, their work done, camping awhile in clusters of mighty camps. No holiday soldiers!—youthful, yet veterans; Worn, swart, handsome, strong, of the stock of homestead and workshop, Harden’d of many a long campaign and sweaty march, Inured on many a hard-fought, bloody field. 9 A pause—the armies wait; A million flush’d, embattled conquerors wait; The world, too, waits—then, soft as breaking night, and sure as dawn, They melt—they disappear. Exult, indeed, O lands! victorious lands! Not there your victory, on those red, shuddering fields; But here and hence your victory. Melt, melt away, ye armies! disperse, ye blue-clad soldiers! Resolve ye back again—give up, for good, your deadly arms; Other the arms, the fields henceforth for you, or South or North, or East or West, With saner wars—sweet wars—life-giving wars. 10 Loud, O my throat, and clear, O soul! The season of thanks, and the voice of full-yielding; The chant of joy and power for boundless fertility. All till’d and untill’d fields expand before me; I see the true arenas of my race—or first, or last, Man’s innocent and strong arenas. I see the Heroes at other toils; I see, well-wielded in their hands, the better weapons. 11 I see where America, Mother of All, Well-pleased, with full-spanning eye, gazes forth, dwells long, And counts the varied gathering of the products. Busy the far, the sunlit panorama; Prairie, orchard, and yellow grain of the North, Cotton and rice of the South, and Louisianian cane; Open, unseeded fallows, rich fields of clover and timothy, Kine and horses feeding, and droves of sheep and swine, And many a stately river flowing, and many a jocund brook, And healthy uplands with their herby-perfumed breezes, And the good green grass—that delicate miracle, the ever-recurring grass. 12 Toil on, Heroes! harvest the products! Not alone on those warlike fields, the Mother of All, With dilated form and lambent eyes, watch’d you. Toil on, Heroes! toil well! Handle the weapons well! The Mother of All—yet here, as ever, she watches you. Well-pleased, America, thou beholdest, Over the fields of the West, those crawling monsters, The human-divine inventions, the labor-saving implements: Beholdest, moving in every direction, imbued as with life, the revolving hay-rakes, The steam-power reaping-machines, and the horse-power machines, The engines, thrashers of grain, and cleaners of grain, well separating the straw—the nimble work of the patent pitch-fork; Beholdest the newer saw-mill, the southern cotton-gin, and the rice-cleanser. Beneath thy look, O Maternal, With these, and else, and with their own strong hands, the Heroes harvest. All gather, and all harvest; (Yet but for thee, O Powerful! not a scythe might swing, as now, in security; Not a maize-stalk dangle, as now, its silken tassels in peace.) 13 Under Thee only they harvest—even but a wisp of hay, under thy great face, only; Harvest the wheat of Ohio, Illinois, Wisconsin—every barbed spear, under thee; Harvest the maize of Missouri, Kentucky, Tennessee—each ear in its light-green sheath, Gather the hay to its myriad mows, in the odorous, tranquil barns, Oats to their bins—the white potato, the buckwheat of Michigan, to theirs; Gather the cotton in Mississippi or Alabama—dig and hoard the golden, the sweet potato of Georgia and the Carolinas, Clip the wool of California or Pennsylvania, Cut the flax in the Middle States, or hemp, or tobacco in the Borders, Pick the pea and the bean, or pull apples from the trees, or bunches of grapes from the vines, Or aught that ripens in all These States, or North or South, Under the beaming sun, and under Thee.

Written by Pablo Neruda | Gentleman Alone The young maricones and the horny muchachas, The big fat widows delirious from insomnia, The young wives thirty hours' pregnant, And the hoarse tomcats that cross my garden at night, Like a collar of palpitating sexual oysters Surround my solitary home, Enemies of my soul, Conspirators in pajamas Who exchange deep kisses for passwords. Radiant summer brings out the lovers In melancholy regiments, Fat and thin and happy and sad couples; Under the elegant coconut palms, near the ocean and moon, There is a continual life of pants and panties, A hum from the fondling of silk stockings, And women's breasts that glisten like eyes. The salary man, after a while, After the week's tedium, and the novels read in bed at night, Has decisively fucked his neighbor, And now takes her to the miserable movies, Where the heroes are horses or passionate princes, And he caresses her legs covered with sweet down With his ardent and sweaty palms that smell like cigarettes. The night of the hunter and the night of the husband Come together like bed sheets and bury me, And the hours after lunch, when the students and priests are masturbating, And the animals mount each other openly, And the bees smell of blood, and the flies buzz cholerically, And cousins play strange games with cousins, And doctors glower at the husband of the young patient, And the early morning in which the professor, without a thought, Pays his conjugal debt and eats breakfast, And to top it all off, the adulterers, who love each other truly On beds big and tall as ships: So, eternally, This twisted and breathing forest crushes me With gigantic flowers like mouth and teeth And black roots like fingernails and shoes.

Written by Mark Hillringhouse | Woolworths for Greg Fallon A kid yells "*************" out the school bus window. I don't think anyone notices the afternoon clouds turning pink along the horizon, sunlight dripping down the stone facades, the ancient names of old stores fading like the last century above the street, above the Spandex women who adjust their prize buttocks, sweating in the sun as I wonder how this city that has no more memory of itself than a river has of rain, survives. Is it just a matter of time, or that peasant woman who tugs my sleeve demanding "peseta" from every passing stranger: I can still smell the hotdog counter and the pretzel carousel. I loved the sound of birds as I entered, the watery bubbles from aquarium filters over by the plants. If I imagined like a child walking with my mother, the store part rainforest, and closed my eyes I was in som tropical country: that feathered blue against the orange of forgotten sunsets after the rain-washed streets erased the footprints of tired mothers who waited in line under the red and gold transom to cash their welfare checks. And maybe we're all feeling the same rage, seeing the up-turned fish tanks stacked against the parakeet cages, sunlight catching on the twisted wire between the shabbiness of an emptied storefront, rays of sunlight poking in to finger the dusty hollowness of barren shelves. Or maybe it's the cheap Plexiglas above the Chinese lettering or the sound of car alarms and sirens blaring us back. The city dead in me swaying down these aisles, like everything else that fell from my life. I walk down Main Street trying to regain my balance behind the men who walk home from sweaty jobs with clenched fists and the women who follow them pulling their children like dogs in the rain.

Written by Rupert Brooke | Jealousy When I see you, who were so wise and cool, Gazing with silly sickness on that fool You've given your love to, your adoring hands Touch his so intimately that each understands, I know, most hidden things; and when I know Your holiest dreams yield to the stupid bow Of his red lips, and that the empty grace Of those strong legs and arms, that rosy face, Has beaten your heart to such a flame of love, That you have given him every touch and move, Wrinkle and secret of you, all your life, -- Oh! then I know I'm waiting, lover-wife, For the great time when love is at a close, And all its fruit's to watch the thickening nose And sweaty neck and dulling face and eye, That are yours, and you, most surely, till you die! Day after day you'll sit with him and note The greasier tie, the dingy wrinkling coat; As prettiness turns to pomp, and strength to fat, And love, love, love to habit! And after that, When all that's fine in man is at an end, And you, that loved young life and clean, must tend A foul sick fumbling dribbling body and old, When his rare lips hang flabby and can't hold Slobber, and you're enduring that worst thing, Senility's queasy furtive love-making, And searching those dear eyes for human meaning, Propping the bald and helpless head, and cleaning A scrap that life's flung by, and love's forgotten, -- Then you'll be tired; and passion dead and rotten; And he'll be dirty, dirty! O lithe and free And lightfoot, that the poor heart cries to see, That's how I'll see your man and you! -- But you -- Oh, when THAT time comes, you'll be dirty too!

Written by T S (Thomas Stearns) Eliot | What The Thunder Said After the torchlight red on sweaty faces After the frosty silence in the gardens After the agony in stony places The shouting and the crying Prison and palace and reverberation Of thunder of spring over distant mountains He who was living is now dead We who were living are now dying With a little patience 330 Here is no water but only rock Rock and no water and the sandy road The road winding above among the mountains Which are mountains of rock without water If there were water we should stop and drink Amongst the rock one cannot stop or think Sweat is dry and feet are in the sand If there were only water amongst the rock Dead mountain mouth of carious teeth that cannot spit Here one can neither stand nor lie nor sit 340 There is not even silence in the mountains But dry sterile thunder without rain There is not even solitude in the mountains But red sullen faces sneer and snarl From doors of mudcracked houses If there were water And no rock If there were rock And also water And water 350 A spring A pool among the rock If there were the sound of water only Not the cicada And dry grass singing But sound of water over a rock Where the hermit-thrush sings in the pine trees Drip drop drip drop drop drop drop But there is no water Who is the third who walks always beside you? 360 When I count, there are only you and I together But when I look ahead up the white road There is always another one walking beside you Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded I do not know whether a man or a woman —But who is that on the other side of you? What is that sound high in the air Murmur of maternal lamentation Who are those hooded hordes swarming Over endless plains, stumbling in cracked earth 370 Ringed by the flat horizon only What is the city over the mountains Cracks and reforms and bursts in the violet air Falling towers Jerusalem Athens Alexandria Vienna London Unreal A woman drew her long black hair out tight And fiddled whisper music on those strings And bats with baby faces in the violet light 380 Whistled, and beat their wings And crawled head downward down a blackened wall And upside down in air were towers Tolling reminiscent bells, that kept the hours And voices singing out of empty cisterns and exhausted wells. In this decayed hole among the mountains In the faint moonlight, the grass is singing Over the tumbled graves, about the chapel There is the empty chapel, only the wind's home. It has no windows, and the door swings, 390 Dry bones can harm no one. Only a cock stood on the rooftree Co co rico co co rico In a flash of lightning. Then a damp gust Bringing rain Ganga was sunken, and the limp leaves Waited for rain, while the black clouds Gathered far distant, over Himavant. The jungle crouched, humped in silence. Then spoke the thunder 400 DA Datta: what have we given? My friend, blood shaking my heart The awful daring of a moment's surrender Which an age of prudence can never retract By this, and this only, we have existed Which is not to be found in our obituaries Or in memories draped by the beneficent spider Or under seals broken by the lean solicitor In our empty rooms 410 DA Dayadhvam: I have heard the key Turn in the door once and turn once only We think of the key, each in his prison Thinking of the key, each confirms a prison Only at nightfall, aetherial rumours Revive for a moment a broken Coriolanus DA Damyata: The boat responded Gaily, to the hand expert with sail and oar 420 The sea was calm, your heart would have responded Gaily, when invited, beating obedient To controlling hands I sat upon the shore Fishing, with the arid plain behind me Shall I at least set my lands in order? London Bridge is falling down falling down falling down Poi s'ascose nel foco che gli affina Quando fiam ceu chelidon— O swallow swallow Le Prince d'Aquitaine a la tour abolie 430 These fragments I have shored against my ruins Why then Ile fit you. Hieronymo's mad againe. Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata. Shantih shantih shantih Line 416 aetherial] aethereal Line 429 ceu] uti— Editor

Written by Gary Snyder | Hay for the Horses Hay for the Horses He had driven half the night From far down San Joaquin Through Mariposa, up the Dangerous Mountain roads, And pulled in at eight a.m. With his big truckload of hay behind the barn. With winch and ropes and hooks We stacked the bales up clean To splintery redwood rafters High in the dark, flecks of alfalfa Whirling through shingle-cracks of light, Itch of haydust in the sweaty shirt and shoes. At lunchtime under Black oak Out in the hot corral, ---The old mare nosing lunchpails, Grasshoppers crackling in the weeds--- "I'm sixty-eight" he said, "I first bucked hay when I was seventeen. I thought, that day I started, I sure would hate to do this all my life. And dammit, that's just what I've gone and done."

Written by John Donne | Elegy VIII: The Comparison As the sweet sweat of roses in a still, As that which from chafed musk-cats' pores doth trill, As the almighty balm of th' early East, Such are the sweat drops of my mistress' breast, And on her brow her skin such lustre sets, They seem no sweat drops, but pearl coronets. Rank sweaty froth thy Mistress's brow defiles, Like spermatic issue of ripe menstruous boils, Or like the scum, which, by need's lawless law Enforced, Sanserra's starved men did draw From parboiled shoes and boots, and all the rest Which were with any sovereigne fatness blest, And like vile lying stones in saffroned tin, Or warts, or weals, they hang upon her skin. Round as the world's her head, on every side, Like to the fatal ball which fell on Ide, Or that whereof God had such jealousy, As, for the ravishing thereof we die. Thy head is like a rough-hewn statue of jet, Where marks for eyes, nose, mouth, are yet scarce set; Like the first Chaos, or flat-seeming face Of Cynthia, when th' earth's shadows her embrace. Like Proserpine's white beauty-keeping chest, Or Jove's best fortunes urn, is her fair breast. Thine's like worm-eaten trunks, clothed in seals' skin, Or grave, that's dust without, and stink within. And like that slender stalk, at whose end stands The woodbine quivering, are her arms and hands. Like rough barked elm-boughs, or the russet skin Of men late scourged for madness, or for sin, Like sun-parched quarters on the city gate, Such is thy tanned skin's lamentable state. And like a bunch of ragged carrots stand The short swol'n fingers of thy gouty hand. Then like the Chimic's masculine equal fire, Which in the Lymbecks warm womb doth inspire Into th' earth's worthless dirt a soul of gold, Such cherishing heat her best loved part doth hold. Thine's like the dread mouth of a fired gun, Or like hot liquid metals newly run Into clay moulds, or like to that Etna Where round about the grass is burnt away. Are not your kisses then as filthy, and more, As a worm sucking an envenomed sore? Doth not thy feareful hand in feeling quake, As one which gath'ring flowers still fears a snake? Is not your last act harsh, and violent, As when a plough a stony ground doth rent? So kiss good turtles, so devoutly nice Are priests in handling reverent sacrifice, And such in searching wounds the surgeon is As we, when we embrace, or touch, or kiss. Leave her, and I will leave comparing thus, She, and comparisons are odious.

Written by Walt Whitman | Drum-Taps 1 FIRST, O songs, for a prelude, Lightly strike on the stretch’d tympanum, pride and joy in my city, How she led the rest to arms—how she gave the cue, How at once with lithe limbs, unwaiting a moment, she sprang; (O superb! O Manhattan, my own, my peerless! O strongest you in the hour of danger, in crisis! O truer than steel!) How you sprang! how you threw off the costumes of peace with indifferent hand; How your soft opera-music changed, and the drum and fife were heard in their stead; How you led to the war, (that shall serve for our prelude, songs of soldiers,) How Manhattan drum-taps led. 2 Forty years had I in my city seen soldiers parading; Forty years as a pageant—till unawares, the Lady of this teeming and turbulent city, Sleepless amid her ships, her houses, her incalculable wealth, With her million children around her—suddenly, At dead of night, at news from the south, Incens’d, struck with clench’d hand the pavement. A shock electric—the night sustain’d it; Till with ominous hum, our hive at day-break pour’d out its myriads. From the houses then, and the workshops, and through all the doorways, Leapt they tumultuous—and lo! Manhattan arming. 3 To the drum-taps prompt, The young men falling in and arming; The mechanics arming, (the trowel, the jack-plane, the blacksmith’s hammer, tost aside with precipitation;) The lawyer leaving his office, and arming—the judge leaving the court; The driver deserting his wagon in the street, jumping down, throwing the reins abruptly down on the horses’ backs; The salesman leaving the store—the boss, book-keeper, porter, all leaving; Squads gather everywhere by common consent, and arm; The new recruits, even boys—the old men show them how to wear their accoutrements—they buckle the straps carefully; Outdoors arming—indoors arming—the flash of the musket-barrels; The white tents cluster in camps—the arm’d sentries around—the sunrise cannon, and again at sunset; Arm’d regiments arrive every day, pass through the city, and embark from the wharves; (How good they look, as they tramp down to the river, sweaty, with their guns on their shoulders! How I love them! how I could hug them, with their brown faces, and their clothes and knapsacks cover’d with dust!) The blood of the city up—arm’d! arm’d! the cry everywhere; The flags flung out from the steeples of churches, and from all the public buildings and stores; The tearful parting—the mother kisses her son—the son kisses his mother; (Loth is the mother to part—yet not a word does she speak to detain him;) The tumultuous escort—the ranks of policemen preceding, clearing the way; The unpent enthusiasm—the wild cheers of the crowd for their favorites; The artillery—the silent cannons, bright as gold, drawn along, rumble lightly over the stones; (Silent cannons—soon to cease your silence! Soon, unlimber’d, to begin the red business;) All the mutter of preparation—all the determin’d arming; The hospital service—the lint, bandages, and medicines; The women volunteering for nurses—the work begun for, in earnest—no mere parade now; War! an arm’d race is advancing!—the welcome for battle—no turning away; War! be it weeks, months, or years—an arm’d race is advancing to welcome it. 4 Mannahatta a-march!—and it’s O to sing it well! It’s O for a manly life in the camp! And the sturdy artillery! The guns, bright as gold—the work for giants—to serve well the guns: Unlimber them! no more, as the past forty years, for salutes for courtesies merely; Put in something else now besides powder and wadding. 5 And you, Lady of Ships! you Mannahatta! Old matron of this proud, friendly, turbulent city! Often in peace and wealth you were pensive, or covertly frown’d amid all your children; But now you smile with joy, exulting old Mannahatta!

Written by John Betjeman | The Cottage Hospital At the end of a long-walled garden in a red provincial town, A brick path led to a mulberry- scanty grass at its feet. I lay under blackening branches where the mulberry leaves hung down Sheltering ruby fruit globes from a Sunday-tea-time heat. Apple and plum espaliers basked upon bricks of brown; The air was swimming with insects, and children played in the street. Out of this bright intentness into the mulberry shade Musca domestica (housefly) swung from the August light Slap into slithery rigging by the waiting spider made Which spun the lithe elastic till the fly was shrouded tight. Down came the hairy talons and horrible poison blade And none of the garden noticed that fizzing, hopeless fight. Say in what Cottage Hospital whose pale green walls resound With the tap upon polished parquet of inflexible nurses' feet Shall I myself by lying when they range the screens around? And say shall I groan in dying, as I twist the sweaty sheet? Or gasp for breath uncrying, as I feel my senses drown'd While the air is swimming with insects and children play in the street?

Written by Robert William Service | The Twins Of Lucky Strike I've sung of Violet de Vere, that slinky, minky dame, Of Gertie of the Diamond Tooth, and Touch-the-Button Nell, And Maye Lamore,--at eighty-four I oughta blush wi' shame That in my wild and wooly youth I knew them ladies well. And Klondike Kit, and Gumboot Sue, and many I've forgot; They had their faults, as I recall, the same as you and me; But come to take them all in all, the daisy of the lot, The glamour queen of dance-hall dames was Montreal Maree. And yet her heart was bigger than a barn, the boys would say; Always the first to help the weak, and so with words of woe, She put me wise that Lipstick Lou was in the family way: "An' who ze baby's fazzaire ees, only ze bon Dieu know." Then on a black and bitter night passed on poor Lipstick Lou; And by her bedside, midwife wise, wi' tears aflowin' free, A holdin' out the newly born,--an' by gosh! there was two: "Helas! I am zere mossaire now," said Montreal Maree. Said One-eyed Mike: "In Lucky Strike we've never yet had twins," As darin' inundation he held one upon each knee. "Say, boys, ain't they a purty sight, as like's a pair o' pins-- We gotta hold a christinin' wi' Father Tim McGee." "I aim to be their Godpa," bellowed Black Moran from Nome. "The guy wot don't love childer is a blasted S.O.B.: So long as I can tot a gun them kids won't lack a home." "I sink zey creep into my heart," said Montreal Maree. 'Twas hectic in the Nugget Bar, the hooch was flowin' free, An' Lousetown Liz was singin' of how someone done her wrong, Wi' sixty seeded sourdoughs all ahollerin' their glee, When One-eyed Mike uprose an' called suspension of the song. Says he: "Aloodin' to them twins, their age in months is two, An' I propose wi' Christmas close, we offer them a tree. 'Twill sure be mighty pleasin' to the ghost o' Lipstick Lou . . ." "Zen you will be ze Père Noël," said Montreal Maree. The dance hall of the Nugget Bar erupted joy an' light, An' set upon the stage them twins was elegant to see, Like angel cherubs in their robes of pure baptismal white, Abaskin' in the sunny smile o' Father tim McGee. Then on the bar stood Santa Claus, says he: "We'll form a Trust; So all you sourdoughs heft your pokes an' hang 'em on the Tree. To give them kids a chance in life we'll raise enough or bust!" "For zem I pray ze Lord to bless," said Montreal Maree. You never saw a Christmas Tree so swell as that, I vow, Wi' sixty sweaty sourdoughs ringin' round them infants two; Their solid pokes o' virgin gold aweighin' down each bough, All singin' Christ Is Risen, for the soul o' Lipstick Lou, "Lo! Death is a deliverer, the purger of our sins, And Motherhood leads up to God," said Father Tim McGee. Then all the Ladies of the Line bent down to kiss them twins, Clasped to the breast, Madonna-like, of Montreal Maree. Sure 'tis the love of childer makes for savin' of the soul, And in Maternity the hope of humankind we see; So though she wears no halo, headin' out for Heaven's goal, Awheelin' of a double pram,--bless Montreal Maree!