No matter what you call it,
    Whether genius, or art,
  He sings the simple songs that come
    The closest to your heart. 
  Fur trim an’ skillful phrases,
    I do not keer a jot;
  ’Tain’t the words alone, but feelin’s,
    That tech the tender spot. 
  An’ that’s jest why I love him,—­
    Why, he’s got sech human feelin’,
  An’ in ev’ry song he gives us,
    You kin see it creepin’, stealin’,
  Through the core the tears go tricklin’,
    But the edge is bright an’ smiley;
  I never saw a poet
    Like that poet Whitcomb Riley.

  His heart keeps beatin’ time with our’n
    In measures fast or slow;
  He tells us jest the same ol’ things
    Our souls have learned to know. 
  He paints our joys an’ sorrers
    In a way so stric’ly true,
  That a body can’t help knowin’
    That he has felt them too. 
  If there’s a lesson to be taught,
    He never fears to teach it,
  An’ he puts the food so good an’ low
    That the humblest one kin reach it. 
  Now in our time, when poets rhyme
    For money, fun, or fashion,
  ’Tis good to hear one voice so clear
    That thrills with honest passion. 
  So let the others build their songs,
    An’ strive to polish highly,—­
  There’s none of them kin tech the heart
    Like our own Whitcomb Riley.

A MADRIGAL

  Dream days of fond delight and hours
    As rosy-hued as dawn, are mine. 
    Love’s drowsy wine,
  Brewed from the heart of Passion flowers,
    Flows softly o’er my lips
    And save thee, all the world is in eclipse.

  There were no light if thou wert not;
    The sun would be too sad to shine,
    And all the line
  Of hours from dawn would be a blot;
    And Night would haunt the skies,
    An unlaid ghost with staring dark-ringed eyes.

  Oh, love, if thou wert not my love,
    And I perchance not thine—­what then? 
    Could gift of men
  Or favor of the God above,
    Plant aught in this bare heart
    Or teach this tongue the singer’s soulful art?

  Ah, no!  ’Tis love, and love alone
    That spurs my soul so surely on;
    Turns night to dawn,
  And thorns to roses fairest blown;
    And winter drear to spring—­
    Oh, were it not for love I could not sing!

A STARRY NIGHT

  A cloud fell down from the heavens,
    And broke on the mountain’s brow;
  It scattered the dusky fragments
    All over the vale below.

  The moon and the stars were anxious
    To know what its fate might be;
  So they rushed to the azure op’ning,
    And all peered down to see.

A LYRIC

  My lady love lives far away,
  And oh my heart is sad by day,
  And ah my tears fall fast by night,
  What may I do in such a plight.