Stephenson's Graded Classical Poems

Aroint him the wraithest of wraithly things!
Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs!
'Tis a fair Whing-Whangress with phosphor rings,
And bridal-jewels of fangs and stings;
And she sits and as sadly and softly sings
As the mildewed whir of her own dead wing's,
Tickle me Dear,
Tickle me here,
Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs

James Whitcomb Riley

LOVE OF COUNTRY
Breathes there the man with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
This is my own, my native land!
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned,
As home his footsteps he hath turned
From wandering on a foreign strand!
If such there breathe, go, mark him well;
For him no minstrel raptures swell;
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim,---
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentered all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonored, and unsung.

Sir Walter Scott

FLEURETTE
My leg ? It's off at the knee.
Do I miss it ? Well some. You see
I've had it since I was born; And lately a devilish corn.
(I rather chuckle with glee
To think how I fooled that corn.)

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