O where are there seven beneath the sky
Who with these seven for thirst can vie?
But the best for good ale these seven among
Are the jolly divine and the son of song.

Dame Fortune passed him by with sullen frown,
But he, with joy of living so beguiled,
Within his heart was not at all cast down,
And as she went her way looked on and smiled.

For Ryce if hundred thousands plough'd,
The lands around his fair abode;
Did vines of thousand vineyards bleed,
Still corn and wine great Ryce would need;
If all the earth had bread's sweet savour,
And water all had cyder's flavour,
Three roaring feasts in Ryce's hall
Would swallow earth and ocean all.

The Poet starved, yet, faithful to the end,
His lines held food for brothers in despair,
And in his cheerless attic coign he penned
The lines of cheer that killed another's care!

You want to clench your fists and
Hold back your tears. Listen,
The joints in your fingers and the lines
In your palms act out your fate; look,
Tears through fire-red blood vessels
Depict this world.

Go to now, ye rich men, weep and howl for your miseries that shall come upon you. Your riches are corrupted, and your garments are moth-eaten. Your gold and silver are cankered; and the rust of them shall be a witness against you, and shall eat your flesh as it were fire.
Ye have heaped treasures together for the last days. Behold, the hire of the laborers who have reaped down your fields, which is of you kept back by fraud, crieth: and the cries of them which have reaped are entered into the ears of the Lord of Sabaoth.

Woe unto you who despise the humble dwelling and inheritance of your fathers!
Woe unto you who build palaces with the sweat of others!
Each stone, each brick of which it is built, is a sin!

Athens be damned; Butte's up and beauty's down;
The old acropolis has come a cropper:
Let Nike yield and nickel take the crown, —
Smelt to fame's heaven thy richest hill, King Copper!

I shot a poem into the air,
It was reprinted everywhere
From Bangor to the Rocky Range —
And always credited to

If she be not fair to me,
What care I how fair she be?
Still, if she be fair, why then
That is something else again.