There's sunshine in the heart of me, My blood sings in the breeze; The mountains are a part of me,
I just think that dreams are best, Just to sit and fancy things; Give your gold no acid test,
So easy 'tis to make a rhyme, That did the world but know it, Your coachman might Parnassus climb,
(The Wounded Canadian Speaks) My leg? It's off at the knee. Do I miss it? Well, some. You see
A child saw in the morning skies The dissipated-looking moon, And opened wide her big blue eyes,
Before I drink myself to death, God, let me finish up my Book! At night, I fear, I fight for breath,
Day after day behold me plying My pen within an office drear; The dullest dog, till homeward hieing,
I haled me a woman from the street, Shameless, but, oh, so fair! I bade her sit in the model's seat,
To rest my fagged brain now and then, When wearied of my proper labors, I lay aside my lagging pen
We was in a crump-'ole, 'im and me; Fightin' wiv our bayonets was we; Fightin' 'ard as 'ell we was,
Oh, it is good to drink and sup, And then beside the kindly fire To smoke and heap the faggots up,
He dreamed away his hours in school; He sat with such an absent air, The master reckoned him a fool,
O God, take the sun from the sky! It's burning me, scorching me up. God, can't You hear my cry?
Humping it here in the dug-out, Sucking me black dudeen, I'd like to say in a general way,
Oh, one gets used to everything! I hum a merry song, And up the street and round the square
I'm dead. Officially I'm dead. Their hope is past. How long I stood as missing! Now, at last
A wild and woeful race he ran Of lust and sin by land and sea; Until, abhorred of God and man,
She was a Philistine spick and span, He was a bold Bohemian. She had the mode, and the last at that;
I sought Him on the purple seas, I sought Him on the peaks aflame; Amid the gloom of giant trees
To-day within a grog-shop near I saw a newly captured linnet, Who beat against his cage in fear,
They turned him loose; he bowed his head, A felon, bent and grey. His face was even as the Dead,
The waves have a story to tell me, As I lie on the lonely beach; Chanting aloft in the pine-tops,
I wish that I could understand The moving marvel of my Hand; I watch my fingers turn and twist,
The sky is like an envelope, One of those blue official things; And, sealing it, to mock our hope,
The lonely sunsets flare forlorn Down valleys dreadly desolate; The lordly mountains soar in scorn,