William Howard Taft

I'm sorry William Taft is out
Of Politics; without a doubt
Of all the Presidential crew
He was the easiest to do.

Oliver Herford

Oliver Herford was born in England on December 2, 1860. He was a British-born American writer, artist, and illustrator, often referred to as 'The American Oscar Wilde' for his sharp wit and humorous works. Herford authored and illustrated many books for children and adults, contributing to magazines such as "The Criterion", "Life", and "Punch". He died on July 5, 1935, in France.

Oliver Herford

To Our Sweethearts

Oliver Herford, Simple Poetry

Saint Paul

Oliver Herford, Simple Poetry

To Hope

Oliver Herford, Simple Poetry

To The Typewriter

Oliver Herford, Simple Poetry

English

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John D. Rockefeller

Few faces interest me less
Than Rockefeller's, I confess.
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To Sir William Harcourt

    My dear Sir William Harcourt, -
    (I have not time to get up your other distinguished names,
    So that you must please excuse the plain Sir William),
    My dear Sir William, do you ever survey the Liberal party,
    From China to Peru,
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    Do you, my dear Sir William?    O do you?
    I do sometimes.
    I do, Sir William, I do indeed.
    O, I do!
    And what is the conclusion I come to, my dear Sir William,
    Ah, what?
    O, what?
    What, what, what, what, what, what, what, what, what?
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    You are sure you won't be offended if I do?
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Thomas William Hodgson Crosland

Gilbert K. Chesterton

Unless I'm very much misled,
Chesterton's easier done than said.
I have not seen him, but his looks
I can imagine from his books.

Oliver Herford

Theodore Roosevelt

The ways of Providence are odd.
If THEODORE means "The Gift of God,"
Let us give thanks, at any rate,
The Gift was not a duplicate.


Aside (To T. R)

Dear Theodore, should it give you pain
To read this Rhyme, let me explain.
If we 'exchanged' you, where on Earth
Could we find one of Equal worth?

O. H.

Oliver Herford

Samuel J. Tilden

Greystone, Aug. 4, 1886.


Once more, O all-adjusting Death!
The nation's Pantheon opens wide;
Once more a common sorrow saith
A strong, wise man has died.

Faults doubtless had he. Had we not
Our own, to question and asperse
The worth we doubted or forgot
Until beside his hearse?

Ambitious, cautious, yet the man
To strike down fraud with resolute hand;
A patriot, if a partisan,
He loved his native land.

So let the mourning bells be rung,
The banner droop its folds half way,
And while the public pen and tongue
Their fitting tribute pay,

Shall we not vow above his bier
To set our feet on party lies,
And wound no more a living ear
With words that Death denies

John Greenleaf Whittier