Once riding in old Baltimore,
Heart-filled, head-filled with glee,
I saw a Baltimorean
Keep looking straight at me.
Fruit Of The Flower
My father is a quiet man
With sober, steady ways;
For simile, a folded fan;
His nights are like his days.
The Loss Of Love
All through an empty place I go,
And find her not in any room;
The candles and the lamps I light
Go down before a wind of gloom.
Dead men are wisest, for they know
How far the roots of flowers go,
How long a seed must rot to grow.
For A Lady I Know
She even thinks that up in heaven
Her class lies late and snores
While poor black cherubs rise at seven