Porticoes with columns plaited And entwined with vines and freighted With a bloom all radiated With the light of moon and star; Where some tender voice is winging In sad flights of song, and singing To the dancing fingers flinging Dripping from the sweet guitar. Would my dreams were never taken From me: that with faith unshaken I might sleep and never waken On a weary world of woe! Links of love would never sever As I dreamed them, never, never! I would glide along forever Through the dreams of long ago. CRAQUEODOOM The Crankadox leaned o'er the edge of the moon And wistfully gazed on the sea Where the Gryxabodill madly whistled a tune To the air of "Ti-fol-de-ding-dee." The quavering shriek of the Fly-up-the-creek Was fitfully wafted afar To the Queen of the Wunks as she powdered her cheek With the pulverized rays of a star. The Gool closed his ear on the voice of the Grig, And his heart it grew heavy as lead As he marked the Baldekin adjusting his wing On the opposite side of his head, And the air it grew chill as the Gryxabodill Raised his dank, dripping fins to the skies, And plead with the Plunk for the use of her bill To pick the tears out of his eyes. The ghost of the Zhack flitted by in a trance, And the Squidjum hid under a tub As he heard the loud hooves of the Hooken advance With a rub-a-dub--dub-a-dub--dub! And the Crankadox cried, as he lay down and died, "My fate there is none to bewail," While the Queen of the Wunks drifted over the tide With a long piece of crape to her tail. JUNE Queenly month of indolent repose! I drink thy breath in sips of rare perfume, As in thy downy lap of clover-bloom I nestle like a drowsy child and doze The lazy hours away. The zephyr throws The shifting shuttle of the Summer's loom And weaves a damask-work of gleam and gloom Before thy listless feet. The lily blows A bugle-call of fragrance o'er the glade; And, wheeling into ranks, with plume and spear, Thy harvest-armies gather on parade; While, faint and far away, yet pure and clear, A voice calls out of alien lands of shade:-- All hail the Peerless Goddess of the Year! WASH LOWRY'S REMINISCENCE And you're the poet of this concern? I've seed your name in print A dozen times, but I'll be dern I'd 'a' never 'a' took the hint O' the size you are--fer I'd pictured you A kind of a tallish man-- Dark-complected and sallor too, And on the consumpted plan. 'Stid o' that you're little and small, With a milk-and-water face-- 'Thout no snap in your eyes at all, Er nothin' to suit the case! Kind o'look like a--I don't know-- One o' these fair-ground chaps That runs a thingamajig to blow, Er a candy-stand perhaps.