. Walt Mason : his book. nds and said: Fmglad that task is done! The half-backraised his fractured head, and cried: Icall this fun! Walt Mason YOU HAVENT much sense, but Ilove you well, O wild-eyed bronchoof mine! Your heart is hot with theheat of hell, and a cyclones in your spine;your folly grows with increasing age; youstand by the pasture bars, and bare yourteeth in a dotard rage, and kick at the smil-ing stars. As homely you as the face of sin,with brands on your mottled flanks, andsaddle scars on your dusky skin, and burson your tail and shanks! and old—so oldthat the men are dead, who b
. Walt Mason : his book. nds and said: Fmglad that task is done! The half-backraised his fractured head, and cried: Icall this fun! Walt Mason YOU HAVENT much sense, but Ilove you well, O wild-eyed bronchoof mine! Your heart is hot with theheat of hell, and a cyclones in your spine;your folly grows with increasing age; youstand by the pasture bars, and bare yourteeth in a dotard rage, and kick at the smil-ing stars. As homely you as the face of sin,with brands on your mottled flanks, andsaddle scars on your dusky skin, and burson your tail and shanks! and old—so oldthat the men are dead, who branded yourneck and side; and their sons have lived andgone to bed, and turned to the wall anddied. But its you for the long, long wearytrail, oer the hills and the desert sand, bythe side of the bones of the steeds that failand perish on either hand. Its you for thesteady and tireless lope, through canyon ormountain pass; to be flogged at night witha length of rope, and be fed on a bunch ofgrass. The Broncho i^Z?>]. And then I float anuay, a<way, to moanlitcastles in Cathay. Walt Mason THERE IS no tune that grips my heart,and seems to pull me all apart, likethis old Serenade; it seems to breatheof distant lands, and orange groves andsilver sands, and troubadour and maid. Itsfreighted with a gentle woe as old as allthe seas that flow, as young as yesterday;as changeless as the stars above, as yearn-ing as a womans love for true knight faraway. It seems a prayer, serene and pure;a tale of love that will endure when theywho loved are dust, when earthly songs areheard no more, and bridal wreaths are with-ered sore, and wedding rings are rust. Itsweary with a lovers care; its wailing witha deep despair, that only lovers learn; andyet through all its sadness grope the sing-ing messengers of hope for joys that willreturn. O, gentle, soothing Serenade!When I am beaten down and frayed, withall my hopes in pawn, when Ive forgottenhow to laugh, I wind up my old phono-graph, and t
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