Sometimes I have gone astray From love's sunny, flowery way: How I floundered, how I stuttered! And, deprived of ways and means, What egregious rot I uttered,-- Such as suits the magazines! I was rescued only when Eros called me back again. Gods forefend that I should shun That benignant Mother's son! Why, the poet who refuses To emblazon love's delights Gets the mitten from the Muses,-- Then what balderdash he writes! I love Love; which being so, See how smooth my verses flow! Gentle Eros, lead the way,-- I will follow while I may: Be thy path by hill or hollow, I will follow fast and free; And when I'm too old to follow, I will sit and sing of thee,-- Potent still in intellect, Sit, and sing, and retrospect. MR. BILLINGS OF LOUISVILLE. THERE are times in one's life which one cannot forget; And the time I remember's the evening I met A haughty young scion of bluegrass renown Who made my acquaintance while painting the town: A handshake, a cocktail, a smoker, and then Mr. Billings of Louisville touched me for ten. There flowed in his veins the blue blood of the South, And a cynical smile curled his sensuous mouth; He quoted from Lanier and Poe by the yard, But his purse had been hit by the war, and hit hard: I felt that he honored and flattered me when Mr. Billings of Louisville touched me for ten. I wonder that never again since that night A vision of Billings has hallowed my sight; I pine for the sound of his voice and the thrill That comes with the touch of a ten-dollar bill: I wonder and pine; for--I say it again-- Mr. Billings of Louisville touched me for ten. I've heard what old Whittier sung of Miss Maud; But all such philosophy's nothing but fraud; To one who's a bear in Chicago to-day, With wheat going up, and the devil to pay, These words are the saddest of tongue or of pen: "Mr. Billings of Louisville touched me for ten." POET AND KING. THOUGH I am king, I have no throne Save this rough wooden siege alone; I have no empire, yet my sway Extends a myriad leagues away; No servile vassal bends his knee In grovelling reverence to me, Yet at my word all hearts beat high, And there is fire in every eye, And love and gratitude they bring As tribute unto me, a king.