Franklin Pierce Adams

[F.P.A.] (15 November 1881 – 23 March 1960 / Chicago, Illinois)

Franklin Pierce Adams Poems

41. To Alice-Sit-By-The-Hour 1/3/2003
42. Us Potes 1/3/2003
43. The Carlysles 1/3/2003
44. The Comfort Of Obscurity 1/3/2003
45. The Jazzy Bard 1/3/2003
46. The Ballad Of The Murdered Merchant 1/3/2003
47. The Ballad Of The Thoughtless Waiter 1/3/2003
48. When You Meet A Man From Your Own Home Town 1/3/2003
49. To Myrtilla 1/3/2003
50. To A Prospective Cook 1/3/2003
51. What Flavour? 1/3/2003
52. On A Wine Of Horace's 1/3/2003
53. Recuerdo 1/3/2003
54. The Return Of The Soldier 1/3/2003
55. A Perfect Woman Nobly Planned 3/30/2012
56. Lines On Reading Frank J. Wilstach's 1/3/2003
57. Such Stuff As Dreams 1/3/2003
58. Present Imperative 1/3/2003
59. On First Looking Into Bee Palmer's Shoulders 1/3/2003
60. Thoughts On The Cosmos 1/3/2003
61. To An Aged Cut-Up, Ii 1/3/2003
62. The Stalling Of Q.H.F. 1/3/2003
63. To An Aged Cut-Up 1/3/2003
64. On Tradition 1/3/2003
65. It Happens In The B.R. Families 1/3/2003
66. From: Horace To: Phyllis Subject: Invitation 1/3/2003
67. To A Vers Librist 1/3/2003
68. I'M Out Of The Army Now 1/3/2003
69. His Monument 1/3/2003
70. Lines Written On The Sunny Side Of Frankfort Street 1/3/2003
71. Propertius's Bid For Immortality 1/3/2003
72. Results Ridiculous 1/3/2003
73. The Doughboy's Horace 1/3/2003
74. Rus. Vs. Urbs 1/3/2003
75. On The Uses Of Adversity 1/3/2003
76. After Hearing Robin Hood 1/3/2003
77. If Amy Lowell Had Been James Whitcomb Riley 1/3/2003
78. If The Advertising Man Had Been Gilbert 1/3/2003
79. The Dictaphone Bard 1/3/2003
80. The Shepherd's Resolution 1/3/2003

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Best Poem of Franklin Pierce Adams

A Psalm Of Labouring Life

Tell me not, in doctored numbers,
Life is but a name for work!
For the labour that encumbers
Me I wish that I could shirk.

Life is phony! Life is rotten!
And the wealthy have no soul;
Why should you be picking cotton,
Why should I be mining coal?

Not employment and not sorrow
Is my destined end or way;
But to act that each tomorrow
Finds me idler than today.

Work is long, and plutes are lunching;
Money is the thing I crave;
But my heart continues punching
Funeral time-clocks to the grave.

In the world's uneven battle, ...

Read the full of A Psalm Of Labouring Life

A Lament

Horace: Book II, Elegy 8

"Eripitur nobis iam pridem cara puella---"


While she I loved is being torn
From arms that held her many years,
Dost thou regard me, friend, with scorn,
Or seek to check my tears?

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