A man is not the slave of circumstance,
Or need not be, but builder and dictator;
He makes his own events, not time nor chance;
Their logic his: not creature, but creator.

Up from the oven pit,
The hell where poor men toil,
At the sunset hour he comes
Clean-clothed, washed from soil.
On the fo'c's'le head he kneels,
His face to the hallowed West.
He prays, and bows and prays.
Does he pray for death and rest?

Cache-les dans ton coeur, toi dont le coeur pardonne,
Ces bouquets imprudents qui fleurissaient en moi ;
C'est toute une âme en fleur qui s'exhale vers toi ;
Aux autres, je l'entr'ouvre : à toi, je te la donne.

If I could catch the green lantern of the firefly
I could see to write you a letter.

You and me
me and you
flower-bee
grass and dew.

How can my love hold him when the other
Flaunts a gaudy lust and is lioness
To his beast? Men are worthless, to trap them
Use the cheapest bait of all, but never
Love, which in a woman must mean tears
And a silence in the blood.

Dimly apparent, through the gloom
Of Market-street's opaque simoom,
A queue of people, parti-sexed,
Awaiting the command of 'Next!'
A sidewalk booth, a dingy sign:
'Teeth dusted nice-five cents a shine.'

His poems Riley says that he indites
Upon an empty stomach. Heavenly Powers,
Feed him throat-full: for what the beggar writes
Upon his empty stomach empties ours!

Beneath his coat of dirt great Neilson loves
To hide the avenging rope.
He handles all he touches without gloves,
Excepting soap.

L'amour a remué ma vie comme on remue la terre dans la zone des armées
J'atteignais l'âge mûr quand la guerre arriva
Et dans ce jour d'août 1915 le plus chaud de l'année
Bien abrité dans l'hypogée que j'ai creusé moi-même
C'est à toi que je songe Italie mère de mes pensées