The Kings are passing Deathward. [David Morton] The Kings are passing deathward in the dark Of days that had been splendid where they went; Their crowns are captive and their courts are stark Of purples that are ruinous, now, and rent. For all that they have seen disastrous things: The shattered pomp, the split and shaken throne, They cannot quite forget the way of Kings: Gravely they pass, majestic and alone. With thunder on their brows, their faces set Toward the eternal night of restless shapes, They walk in awful splendor, regal yet, Wearing their crimes like rich and kingly capes . . . Curse them or taunt, they will not hear or see; The Kings are passing deathward: let them be. Jerico. [Willard Wattles] Jerico, Jerico, Round and round the walls I go Where they watch with scornful eyes, Where the captained bastions rise; Heel and toe, heel and toe, Blithely round the walls I go. Jerico, Jerico, Round and round the walls I go . . . All the golden ones of earth Regal in their lordly mirth . . . Heel and toe, heel and toe, Round and round the walls I go. Jerico, Jerico, Blithely round the walls I go, With a broken sword in hand Where the mighty bastions stand; Heel and toe, heel and toe, Hear my silly bugle blow. Heel and toe, heel and toe, Round the walls of Jerico . . . Past the haughty golden gate Where the emperor in state Smiles to see the ragged show, Round and round the towers go. Jerico, Jerico, Round and round and round I go . . . All their sworded bodies must Lie low in their tower's dust . . . Heel and toe, heel and toe, Blithely round the walls I go. Heel and toe, heel and toe, -- I will blow a thunder note From my brazen bugle's throat Till the sand and thistle know The leveled walls of Jerico, Jerico, Jerico, Jerico. . . . Students. [Florence Wilkinson] John Brown and Jeanne at Fontainebleau -- 'T was Toussaint, just a year ago; Crimson and copper was the glow Of all the woods at Fontainebleau. They peered into that ancient well, And watched the slow torch as it fell. John gave the keeper two whole sous, And Jeanne that smile with which she woos John Brown to folly. So they lose The Paris train. But never mind! -- All-Saints are rustling in the wind, And there's an inn, a crackling fire -- (It's `deux-cinquante', but Jeanne's desire); There's dinner, candles, country wine, Jeanne's lips -- philosophy divine! There was a bosquet at Saint Cloud Wherein John's picture of her grew To be a Salon masterpiece -- Till the rain fell that would not cease. Through one long alley how they raced! -- 'T was gold and brown, and all a waste Of matted leaves, moss-interlaced. Shades of mad queens and hunter-kings And thorn-sharp feet of dryad-things Were company to their wanderings; Then rain and darkness on them drew. The rich folks' motors honked and flew. They hailed an old cab, heaven for two; The bright Champs-Elysees at last -- Though the cab crawled it sped too fast.