George Sylvester Viereck Poems

My heart is like a city of the gay
   Reared on the ruins of a perished one
   Wherein my dead loves cower from the sun,
White-swathed like kings, the Pharaohs of a day.
...

Thy hands are like cool herbs that bring
   Balm to men's hearts, upon them laid;
   Thy lovely-petalled lips are made
As any blossom of the spring.
...

Sweet is the highroad when the skylarks call,
   When we and Love go rambling through the land.
   But shall we still walk gayly, hand in hand,
At the road's turning and the twilight's fall?
...