THE violet is much too shy, The rose too little so; I think I'll ask the buttercup If I may be her beau. When winds go by, I'll nod to her And she will nod to me, And I will kiss her on the cheek As gently as may be. And when the mower cuts us down, Together we will pass, I smiling at the buttercup, She smiling at the grass.

Better to see your cheek grown hollow, Better to see your temple worn, Than to forget to follow, follow, After the sound of a silver horn. Better to bind your brow with willow And follow, follow until you die, Than to sleep with your head on a golden pillow, Nor lift it up when the hunt goes by. Better to see your cheek grow sallow And your hair grown gray, so soon, so soon, Than to forget to hallo, hallo, After the milk-white hounds of the moon.

Gold in the mountain, And gold in the glen, And greed in the heart, Heaven having no part, And unsatisfied men.

HOG Butcher for the World, Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat, Player with Railroads and the Nation's Freight Handler; Stormy, husky, brawling, City of the Big Shoulders:

HOW still the bells in steeples stand, Till, swollen with the sky, They leap upon their silver feet In frantic melody!

Whirl up, sea— whirl your pointed pines, splash your great pines on our rocks, hurl your green over us, cover us with your pools of fir.