The Mocking-Bird
The name thou wearest does thee grievous wrong.
No mimic thou! That voice is thine alone!
The poets sing but strains of Shakespeare’s song;
The birds, but notes of thine imperial own!
More poems by Henry Jerome Stockard
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As Some Mysterious Wanderer of the Skies
As some mysterious wanderer of the skies,
Emerging from the deeps of outer dark,
Traces for once in human ken the arc … -
Over Their Graves
Over their graves rang once the bugle’s call,
The searching shrapnel and the crashing ball;
The shriek, the shock of battle, and the neigh …