To a Silhouette of a Savage A savage on a hillside, A shoreline and a sea, A sense of primitive beauty, And the world’s immensity; The starlit dome of the heavens, And the moonlight on the lea, Made poetic the soul of the savage, As he gazed far out at sea. A soothing sense of pleasure, And the pain of a wild desire, Made his pulse beat faster And set his soul on fire For a certain subtle something— A something that would not quell Until it found its answer In religion’s mystic spell. —1921 Musings of a Little Boy When I was a boy, a little boy, Lying awake at night, I used to wonder Why right could not be wrong And wrong could not be right. For the things I most wished to do Were usually wrong, you see, And that which was right, you know, Was res non grata to me. —1925