O graveyard, O graveyard,
I'm walkin' troo de graveyard;
Lay dis body down.

I know moonlight, I know starlight,
I'm walkin' troo de starlight;
Lay dis body down.

I know moonlight, I know starlight;
I lay dis body down.

I walk in de moonlight, I walk in de starlight;
I lay dis body down.

I know de graveyard, I know de graveyard,
When I lay dis body down.

I walk in de graveyard, I walk troo de graveyard,
To lay, &c.

I lay in de grave an' stretch out my arms;
I lay, &c.

I'm very happy where I am,
Far across the say,
I'm very happy far from home,
In North Amerikay.

It's lonely in the night, when Pat
Is sleeping by my side,
I lie awake, and no one knows
The big tears that I've cried;

For a little voice still calls me back
To my far, far counthrie,
And nobody can hear it spake,
O! nobody but me.

There is a little spot of ground
Behind the chapel wall,
It's nothing but a tiny mound,
Without a stone at all;

It rises like my heart just now,
It makes a dawny hill;

Three folds of the cloth, yet one only napkin is there,
Three joints in the finger, but still only one finger fair;
Three leaves of the shamrock, yet no more than one shamrock to wear.
Frost, snow-flakes and ice, all in water their origin share,
Three Persons in God; to one God alone we make prayer.

A thousand women's eyes
Riveted to the unrealisable
Scatter the wash-stand of the card-teller
Defiled marble of Carrara
On which she spreads
Color-picture maps of destiny
In the corner
of an inconducive bed-room

“Impassioned
Doubly impassioned
Sad
You see these three cards
But here is the double Victory
And there is an elderly lady
Ill in whom you are concerned
This is the Devil
And these two skeletons
Are mortifications
You are going to make a journey

At evening about love

Beneath the sculptured form which late you wore,
Sleep soundly, Maida, at your master's door.

Oh, had you only sought the trail,
When spring was at my door,
Not waited till the frost had blanched
The gold my garden bore.

Oh, had you only braved the hills,
Ere the violet sun had set;
The night holds but a single star,
It seems so late … And yet. . . .

The jazz of humor in our house between
your lips and eyes and mine. And then, in time
that should be triumph and the quiet kingdom
of ring-giving night, comes David Letterman,

his funniness assessed by many millions
of teevee tourists gawking through his clever
paid family. His scripts memorialized
in books beside cash registers. His swiftness

proclaimed, recalled and copied badly each
morning across innumerable coffees. But
honor … But what I meant to say is: Humor
belongs to little obscure clubs like ours,

Upon the table's cloth of green
The Trey of Diamonds lay;
It lured the Knave; he loved the Queen;
For her he took the Trey.

To him the Queen of Diamonds said,
“Make haste, my darling Jack,
And fly with me!” And off they fled
In spite of all the Pack.

The King pursued; alert and quick,
He slew them with his mace!
And that's the way he turned the Trick,
For no one held the Ace!

School lets out for the summer.
No need to go home right away.
Bustling are the parks and museums;
So, hurry and rent a bicycle
Just to ride around.
Start pedaling, roll down the streets!
It's soothing and pleasing to the soul, a truly dashing experience,
But my companions tease me about what a big show-off I am.

Climbing the bridge's slope, a little lad,
I looked up and beheld in bright sunlight,
Against a billowing April cloud, blue-black,
Heavy with threat of hail, a monster white
High-stepping steed with the rider scarlet-clad
Like a flame-robed archangel on its back.

The spark-red nostril and the flashing eye,
The scarlet rider in the sun afire
Against the storm-cloud—shot with thrilling dread
My little heart ahunger with desire
Of angel visions: then, as they went by,
I knew 'twas old Jake Dodd in hunting-red—