Category Archives: sonnets

SF sonnet: Gail White, ‘AI Comes Courting’

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Hi. I’m your robot, and I’ve brought you flowers.
I don’t have feelings, empathy, or dreams,
or any kind of supernatural powers,
but I’ve got piles of data, and it seems
that you like yellow flowers. In your neighbor’s
garden I found these and plucked a few.
But don’t take these and all my other labors
as evidence that I’ve grown fond of you.
As noted earlier, I’m data’s slave,
no friendly spirit or domestic elf.
But though I’m neither loving, loyal, nor brave,
I know how to ingratiate myself.
And so I’ve brought you flowers and a sonnet.
I don’t have feelings, but I’m working on it.

*****

Gail White writes: “I’ve often wondered if the steady advancement of technology will bring the day when robots have their own thoughts and feelings.  This poem is a look forward at  that day.”

‘AI Comes Courting’ was first published in Pulsebeat.

Gail White is a widely published Formalist poet and a contributing editor to Light.  Her new chapbook, Paper Cuts, is out on Amazon or from Kelsay Books. She lives in Breaux Bridge, Louisiana, with her husband and cats.

Illustration by RHL and ChatGPT.

Using form: Odd Sonnet: Brian Bilston, ‘Neither Rhyme Nor Reason’

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To make poems rhyme can sometimes be tough
as words can seem to be from the same bough,
yet each line’s ending sounds different, though,
best covered up with a hiccough or cough.

Was this upsetting to Byron or Yeats?
Dickinson, Wordsworth, Larkin or Keats?
Did they see these words as auditory threats?
Could they write their lines without caveats?

What does it matter when all’s said and done
if you read this as scone when I meant scone?
It’s hardly a crime. There’s no need to atone:
language is a bowl of thick minestrone.

So mumble these endings into your beard –
this poem should be seen, rather than heard.

*****

Brian Bilston is a poet who knows it. He writes about the human condition, relationships, and buses. Agent: Jane Finigan (email: info@lutyensrubinstein.co.uk)

Photo: Brian Bilston, Facebook

John Gallas ‘A Comforting Sonnet’

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‘Caring means a whole new world’ – Croatian Proverb

Rosa Horvat’s hound attacked my legs.
My toes went green. I had a dizzy fit.
They took me to the hospital in Split.
The wards were all full up, so Uncle Dregs
sat by my trolley till he went to work,
then Erno, who’s my mum’s half-brother’s son,
pushed me up and down the hall for fun,
until his grandad’s nephew, who’s a Turk,
came and told me jokes. I wet the bed.
Then someone in a helmet held my hand
and sang a song I couldn’t understand.
Then it was morning, and I wasn’t dead.

I’m home now. Hvala vam if you were there.
Or not. Or sometimes. Friends are everywhere.

*****

Hvala vam – thank you all (Croatian)

John Gallas writes: “As with Camaguey – same collection, the proverb this time being as the little epigraph says. I particularly wanted here a certain tone: I am not a my-thoughts/my-feelings/interesting me sort of poet, and write mostly objective tales, descriptions, experiences that contain anything ‘I’ might want to say. A firm believer in show-not-tell.
“This one has won a couple of prizes: I regularly enter competitions, testing my poems anonymously before judges from The Cats’ League to National Poetry Society. This one won the ‘Caring’ section of a national competition. They liked the ‘humour-and-kindness’ of it all – which pleased me, as that was exactly the tone-intention.
“Wee note: I often set poems – I have travelled much – in various lands and cultures: I have been in trouble for this (my Maori friend, Vaughan Rapatahana, just said ‘Don’t’ when I embarked on some Pacific Island tales-in-verse) but as a Man With No Culture (white NZer?) I feel free to roam, creatively, as long as certain sensitivities are observed. (I have a complex theory as to objection/offence as far as cultures go, but I’ll leave that for now). ‘The Song Atlas’, my best-selling Carcanet book, was a translation of one poem from every country in the world.”

John Gallas, Aotearoa/NZ poet, published mostly by Carcanet. Saxonship Poet (see http://www.saxonship.org), Fellow of the English Association, St Magnus Festival Orkney Poet, librettist, translator and biker. Presently living in Markfield, Leicestershire.
Website is http://www.johngallaspoetry.co.uk which has a featured Poem of the Month, complete book list, links and news.

Photo: John Gallas, Carcanet official photo

Double sonnet, Daniel Galef, ‘A Nightingale to a Sad Poet’

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(Keats’s ‘Ode to a Nightingale’ from the other side)

You slump at my tree’s foot, complex angsts brewing
While our red-clawed, red-beaked animal furies
In these shadowy plots hatch our own undoing.
If thinking is man’s ruin, have no worries.
If you could speak the whistling words of birds
Whose sound to you like music now appears,
As nature’s snow-white cream man sours to curds
To chew, our songs would curdle in your ears:
‘Fly!, fly! The bearded fox is on the prowl!’—
And ‘Keep away! These berries are quick poison!’—
‘I need a mate, or I was born for nought’—
‘Go south, go south!’—‘The horned and hoary owl
Brings swift, crook-taloned death.’ You seek strange joys in
Ignorance, to envy lives so fraught!
Now dull-brained human scientists proclaim
That tool-use is no more unique to apes
Than language, war, or thumbs. They’re all the same
Emergent properties, like wine from grapes.
I am not certain that is Hippocrene;
The Pierian Spring leaves no such scarlet stain.
A jug of wine might well complete the scene:
Your book of verse, &c. A brain
Like smiling Aesop’s, where morals mask the roar
Of lions, the flopping fear of fish in the net,
The worm-wove cloak we dress up in our tomb in—
I think that must be Lethe. Drink, and soar
Above your brain, and me, and quite forget
That you were all too sentient, all too human.

*****

Daniel Galef writes: “I’m a sucker for parodies and response poems! My first book features riffs on Byron, Swift, Ernest Thayer, the ancient epigrammatist Nossis the Epizephyrian, and Doris Day. A few years ago in my master’s program I took a[n excellent] poetry workshop with Barbara Hamby focusing on the history of the Ode, as part of which she had everyone memorize Keats’s “Ode to a Nightingale.” We’d all read the poem before, but engaging with it so closely for a sustained duration was a really lovely experience, and having the whole poem by rote is an excellent party trick if you ever need to clear the room at the end of a party. At the end of the class I sent Professor Hamby a little parody piece, a rebuttal from the nightingale’s point of view to the moping poet sitting underneath its tree. (It was also a gesture of peace because I had gotten on her bad side by insinuating that the speaker calling the nightingale “dryad of the trees” was redundant because all dryads are by definition of the trees.) That poem was three pages or so and more directly parodying Keats’s style, as well as being written with the same stanzaic structure as Keats’s. It was also just for fun and thoroughly unprintable. But something I’ve been doing lately when I can’t bring myself to write an original poem is to sonnet-ize other things I’ve written—short lyric poems, long narrative poems, free verse, even short short stories—as I’m currently putting together a second collection of Imaginary Sonnets, a series of persona poems I’ve been writing for years inspired by the Victorian poet Eugene Lee-Hamilton. I cherrypicked a handful of my favorite lines from the long nightingale poem and spun some sonnet-stuff around them and ended up with this. It was still too much material for fourteen lines but fit into a double-sonnet, which is half as good.”

Daniel Galef’s poetry, half-serious and half-non-, has been published in a variety of venues themselves both serious and non-. His first book, Imaginary Sonnets, collects 70 persona poems from the point of view of various historical figures and literary characters, including Lucrezia Borgia, Christopher Smart’s cat, and a taco. “A Nightingale to a Sad Poet” first appeared in the Spring/Summer 2025 issue of Sein und Werden. Other recent writing can be found in the Indiana Review, the Best Small Fictions anthology, and Scientific American.

“Bard of the Mossy Cot” by Giles Watson’s poetry and prose is licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0.






Sonnet: Maryann Corbett, ‘Saturday Edition’

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Page one, above the fold: the world in flames.
A luxury hotel gapes like a sore.
In mammoth type, the headlines yell the names
of prophets stoking hells of holy war.

In Business, meanwhile, there is calm discussion
of sales rates for the sexy underclothes
pitched by Victoria’s Secret, and a fashion
for surgical revision of the nose.

It isn’t news to those who sell the paper:
their readers can take only so much hell.
They proffer me the surgeon and the draper
as pastures where my bovine brain may dwell,

ignoring, while it chews on this confection,
the screams of children from the other section.

*****

Maryann Corbett writes: “My records tell me that ‘Saturday Edition’ is one of my very earliest sonnets and very earliest acceptances, appearing in The Barefoot Muse in 2007 and included in Mary Meriam’s Irresistible Sonnets in 2014. It was among the poems that gave me the lightbulb realization that I tend to write sonnets when I’m angry.”

Maryann Corbett earned a doctorate in English from the University of Minnesota in 1981 and expected to be teaching Beowulf and Chaucer and the history of the English language. Instead, she spent almost thirty-five years working for the Office of the Revisor of Statutes of the Minnesota Legislature, helping attorneys to write in plain English and coordinating the creation of finding aids for the law. She returned to writing poetry after thirty years away from the craft in 2005 and is now the author of two chapbooks and six full-length collections, most recently The O in the Air (Franciscan U. Press, 2023). Her work has won the Willis Barnstone Translation Prize and the Richard Wilbur Award, has appeared in many journals on both sides of the Atlantic, and is included in anthologies like Measure for Measure: An Anthology of Poetic Meters and The Best American Poetry.

Photo: “UN School in Gaza Attacked” by United Nations Photo is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.

Sonnet series: Jean L. Kreiling, ‘My Brother’s Last Year’

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  1. What My Brother Says

He says I’m not myself, but in my eyes
and in my arms, he is. I hug him, feeling
that he’s lost weight, but brother-warmth defies
that deficit. Disease and “cure” both stealing
small pieces of him, he has had to quit
his role as family cook, and he can’t drive.
But he retains his reason and his wit,
so much so that it seems clear he’ll survive;
they say he won’t. He says his life’s been great,
though certainly too short. He still stands tall
and truthful: he unblinkingly looks straight
ahead, says what he sees, and leads us all.
He looks thin, but he always has been slim.
He says I’m okay, mostly. He’s still him.

  1. What Looms

It’s always there: a cloud—no, more than that,
a monstrous weight, insistent, ugly—no,
invisible, but foul. Its habitat
is everywhere; there’s no place he can go
to break away from its unfailing grip
and find a self not poisoned by his own
insidious insight, where he can strip
his days of its unnerving undertone.
His daughter’s funny story makes him chuckle,
he briefly cares about a football game,
but you can almost see his psyche buckle
again as deathless facts and fears reclaim
their sure dominion, making him aware
again of all that looms. It’s always there.

  1. Walking with My Brother and His Wife

They’re holding hands, as they so often do,
as we three walk a path in woods behind
their house, our sneakers swishing through
mid-fall’s crisp russet leaves. This path will wind
predictably through acres of old trees
and end at their backyard. Along the way,
we talk of plans, the weather, memories;
most of their plans are now in disarray,
like scattered leaves in autumn’s chill. They stroll
as easily as if they could predict
more than this path, own more than land, control
the odds that he’ll grow old. What fears afflict
them, they defer; they face the chill unbowed.
They’ll hold hands for as long as they’re allowed.

  1. Therapy

I write these sonnets as if that might ease
my mind; it doesn’t, and these lines can’t do
a thing for him. Like stopgap therapies
that promise him another month, a few
neat poems only shuffle deck chairs, shaping
elaborations on the theme that dulls
his days with brain fog. He won’t be escaping;
he knows he’s sinking. As my brother mulls
his measureless calamity, I count
out syllables, choose metaphors, debate
rhyme schemes, and watch the icy water mount
in seas that he cannot long navigate.
I write as if I’d find breath in a word,
as if safe passage might yet be secured.

  1. Progress

It’s not the kind of progress we would hope
for; it’s the damned disease that’s making strides.
My brother’s gaining only ways to cope
with each new deficit as it divides
him further from the life that he once led—
a life he’d thoughtfully constructed, made
of love, ideas, and work. Inside his head,
the enemy destroys the cells that weighed
the sense of printed words, and so he learns
to listen to the Post; when his synapses
don’t fire at numbers anymore, he turns
the checkbook over to his wife. The lapses
disturb but don’t defeat him; he finesses
each injury as the assault progresses.

  1. Nothing

I visit him again, this time by train.
(The ten-hour drive gets tougher as I age,
but then, what right do I have to complain?
To grow old is a gift.) This may assuage
my sense there’s nothing I can do, although
a visit’s nearly nothing. Yes, I care;
that’s what my presence demonstrates, I know,
but it will make him strain for things now rare
or difficult: the teasing repartee,
a walk outdoors, shared meals and memories.
He reassures me that he feels okay,
though I watch him declining, by degrees.
I bring his favorite chocolates, as if sweets
could mask the bitter taste nothing defeats.

  1. Want

Not long before the end, he made it clear:
there was so little that he wanted—just
to stay with those he loved, not disappear
into the latter part of dust to dust.
So many of us want so much: we crave
the shiny toy, the extra buck, and more
when less would do—stuff that will never save
our souls or bodies. I knew that before
my brother’s diagnosis, and today
I can’t claim to have unlearned pointless greed.
I find, though, that it’s easier to weigh
the worth of things desired, to measure need,
to understand there isn’t much I lack.
He wanted only time. I want him back.

*****

Jean L. Kreiling writes: “My brother Bill was wise and witty and loving, and deserved a far longer life; I miss him every day. He was teased and adored by his three older sisters, he made our parents proud, and he created a beautiful family of his own.  His magnificent wife and his three devoted grown children took good care of him in the year between his brain cancer diagnosis and his death, but it was a very difficult year for Bill and all who loved him.”

This tribute to him as a series of shakespearean sonnets was originally published in Pulsebeat Poetry 11.

Jean L. Kreiling is the author of four collections of poetry; her work has been awarded the Frost Farm Prize, the Rhina Espaillat Poetry Prize, the Kim Bridgford Memorial Sonnet Prize, and three New England Poetry Club prizes, among other honors.  A Professor Emeritus of Music at Bridgewater State University, she has published articles on the intersections between music and literature in numerous academic journals.  She lives on the coast of Massachusetts.

Photo: “Holding Hands on the Hornby Separated Bike Lane” by Paul Krueger is licensed under CC BY 2.0.

Sonnet: Gail White, ‘Moving’

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How difficult it is to move,
Even from simple place to place.
How hard to pack the books, to shove
The cat into its carrying case.
How hard to sit in Airportland
Through one more endless flight delay
While Trebizond or Samarkand
Wait half a universe away.
How hard to get the papers filed
That separate you from your past,
Newly and legally enisled.  
And yet, and yet my father’s last
Great journey out of self to shade –
How easily and quickly made.  

*****

Gail White writes: “I admit I love this one.  I’ve experienced all of it except the change of citizenship – the trials of moving house, the frustrations of airline travel – and my father’s easy transition, just lying down and quietly going on his way.  It turned into a sonnet before I even thought about it.”

First published in The Formalist.

Gail White lives in the Louisiana bayou country with her husband and cats. Her latest chapbook, Paper Cuts, is available on Amazon, along with her books Asperity Street and Catechism. She appears in a number of anthologies, including two Pocket Poetry chapbooks and Nasty Women Poets. She enjoys being a contributing editor to Light Poetry Magazine. Her dream is to live in Oxfordshire, but failing that, almost any place in Western Europe would do.

“EEEEEK! CHAOS.” by confidence, comely. is licensed under CC BY-NC 2.0.

Sonnet Crown: Amit Majmudar, ‘Recourse’

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1.

Time, like love, is cyclic. Please come back
to me. I’ll stand here waiting, wanting while
the mare without her rider rounds the track.
I want to weave a crown for you, design
a daisy chain whose threaded stems become
a bracelet that handcuffs your wrist to mine.
My shadow’s gnomon tilts like a sun dial’s.
I know you’re somewhere close. I feel a thrum,
a thrill beneath the stillness of the earth,
the way a woman, days before the birth,
places her husband’s hand on the sea swell
that rises out of her and passes through her,
and, touching so much vastness, he can tell
for all their time as one, he never knew her.

2.

For all our time as one, I never knew you—
but doesn’t learning come from repetition?
I’ll do this better if I do it over.
I’ll know your every need by heart, pursue you
like truth. I’ll learn to be a truthful lover.
I’ll circle back to freshman year and woo you.
No song’s recorded in a single session.
No sinner’s shriven after one confession.
It’s time that grows the pearl. Nacre layers
the sand grain, like a secret in the mouth.
Repentance grows, too—grows by daily prayers
into a faith whose trigger seed was doubt.
I am a pearl diver in your depth.
I never left. I just came up for breath.

3.

I never left, I just came up for breath,
but now I am ready to follow you all the way down.
I’ve read we get euphoric as we drown.
Samsara swirls us under. When we break
the whitecaps for an instant, that is death.
Don’t make us wait to be reborn before
we love again. You know me—I’ll just make
the same mistakes. Or make things even worse.
So what if time’s a circle? Doesn’t mean
we have enough of it. The now we’re in
will never come again. So come again
into my life, and love me sight unseen.
We’re both at sea, and no good at dead reckoning.
A burning town’s the only lighthouse beckoning

4.

Our house of light is burning down. It beckons in
the gloaming. The road I’m roaming is a ring.
All time is circular. We’re only seconds in.
All reasoning is circular. I sing
the seasons all the way around the year.
There was a chemist once whose dream disclosed
benzene’s atomic structure. What appeared
before him was a serpent swallowing
its tail—aroma’s O, ouroboros.
I’m wise at last to what the image knows.
I see my answer now, my big mistake.
A ring! Why couldn’t it have been this clear
back then? I see it best when I’m awake.
I’ve circled back. But there is no one here.

5.

I’ve circled back, but there is no one where
the ring road ends. It ends in newfound ruins,
a shell-flecked nest, a rain-worn blade that bears
a message for us. Who can read the runes?
Nietzsche proclaimed the eternal return
and threw his arms around a bleeding horse
to feel the centuries reversing course.
His gooseflesh rose like spores that pock a fern.
Let vultures circle, only widdershins
above the ring road where I wait alone,
knifing in bark a promise of my own.
I know the ring road ends where it begins.
Time is a circle I can put to use:
a wheel to roll things back, a crown, a noose.

6.

A wheel to roll things back, a crown, a noose:
My own Venn diagram of rings to choose
from. Fill its center up with hourglass sand,
and that’s where Archimedes, kneeling, draws.
This is the Roman siege of Syracuse;
he’s hard at work on time, its shape and laws.
He looks up from a boot. A soldier stands
above him, dripping gladius in hand.
Do not disturb my circles, says the Greek.
The soldier studies them, then runs him through—
and so reveals what Archimedes seeks,
the circle, like a circuit, broken, weeks
and months and centuries and aeons spilling
in slow, concentric circles from the killing.

7.

In slow, concentric circles from the still-pink
narcotic kiss print of the cupping glass,
let your memories ripple outward, killing
the pain I’ve caused you. We are not our past,
though time is cyclic. Cycles can be broken,
souls reborn in this life, sleepers woken.
Not that I can sleep beneath this star.
Horizon, magic circle, boxing ring—
time is the space, the spell, the place we spar,
the dome in which your name is echoing.
It’s where I pray the theory into fact
that love, like time, is cyclic. Please come back.

*****

Amit Majmudar writes: “The sonnet crown is a naturally recursive form of forms. The beginning of each sonnet is also an ending, and vice versa. A candle tilts to light a candle that tilts to light a candle, until the occult circle of flame is complete, and the poet sits inside it, meditating the next line, which may well be the line just written.

“This sonnet crown took, as its subject, the tendency of lovers, or at least their memories, to relapse. “Relapse” means to fall back, etymologically. To fall back in love; to fall back out of love. The sonnets enact through form and content alike the recrudescence of the past. The last line of the overall crown matches the first line of the overall crown. The reappearance of the old pain makes it a crown of thorns.

“I wrote this sonnet crown first line to last. I had never even attempted one before, but I relinquished myself to the music-making. I could do that because I circled around a theme–recursion in love–rather than trying to tell a story or present a philosophical argument or any such prosaic thing. Just pure pursuit of the right sounds. This crown came at the end of a sonnet-writing tear so my hand was in practice, as it were.

“Close readers will notice that the crown is imperfect, however. In the final, truncated sonnet, the speaker makes haste to return to the beginning, to break the process of endless recursion. Accordingly, the rhyme word of the line where the deviation begins is “broken”–and it’s there that the formal pattern–the “cycle”–itself is broken. Broken/woken collapses the separated rhyme sounds into a couplet, with a second couplet to conclude the 12-line ending–a couplet of couplets, the original pair formation and the hoped-for repeat pair formation, embodied in the music of the ending that is, at last, a new beginning. “

*****

Amit Majmudar is a poet, novelist, essayist, and translator. He works as a diagnostic nuclear radiologist in Westerville, Ohio, where he lives with his wife and three children. Recent books include Twin A: A Memoir (Slant Books, 2023), The Great Game: Essays on Poetics (Acre Books, 2024), and the hybrid work Three Metamorphoses (Orison Books, 2025). “Recourse” was first published in Plume Poetry, and will be appearing in Majmudar’s forthcoming collection, Things My Grandmother Said, in early 2026. 
More information at www.amitmajmudar.com

Photo: “0103-IVAM – Please Come Back 05” by gibbix1 is licensed under CC BY-NC 2.0.

Using form: John Gallas, ‘travellin feet: a Camaguey sonnet”

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Im walkin in my feet to Camaguey.
The sun comes up. Im cracklin like a chicken …
Takin time …
. Now somethins comin, kickin
clouds of yeller grit behind me – Hey!
Stop! … It dont. Who cares? It whirls away.
I seen inside the flyin cotton curtain –
Business sat with Care …
. My toes are hurtin …
Whoa, I got to walk another day.
How quick they drive to worry … What I got
the other end improves with evry ache,
an every dusty extra hour I take.
Im good n weary. An Im good n hot.

Whyever hurry? … Happiness will keep …
an sorrow passes – Sleep my baby, sleep.

*****

John Gallas writes: “The Coalville Divan – 100 sonnets – included this one. The 100 are based on Old Persian Proverbs (an ancient 1920 book I found in a junk shop). A heady experience, like being addicted to Rum or something, to enter a period of writing highly formal, all-the-same-form poems. I loved it, and it built on itself as I went along, but I needed something different after the 200 tankas of ‘Billy Nibs’ (Carcanet 2024) and had withdrawal symptoms (wanting to make the tankas rhyme!).
“The proverb for this one was ‘To walk and sit is better than to run and burst’. I set it in Cuba because I’d just been there for a month. I had 2 rhyming dictionaries, 2 thesauruses, atlases, and Wikipedia while I worked on these, each one set in a different country. The challenge, I guess, is to sound accomplished/natural whilst obeying all the rhyme/metrical rules very exactly.”

John Edward Gallas FEA was born in Wellington in New Zealand and is of Austrian descent. He attended the University of Otago in his native New Zealand, and won a Commonwealth Scholarship to Merton College, Oxford to study Medieval English Literature and Old Icelandic and has since lived and worked in York, Liverpool and various other locations in England as a bottlewasher, archaeologist and teacher.

John Gallas’ works are listed at https://www.johngallaspoetry.co.uk/

Photo: “Tired Man Walking” by RobertoCobianchi is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 2.0.

Sonnet: J.D. Smith, ‘Behind the Epic’

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The people’s greatest men go forth for years
By land or sea, depending on the foe,
Arrayed with shining swords, shields, helmets, spears
And dazzling banners raised again to show
 
Who holds dominion over flocks and fields,
Who levies tribute and is far renowned
For showing mercy to the town that yields,
That isn’t burned or leveled to the ground.
 
The singer of the tribe, near-sighted, lame,
Stays with the women and shares in their chores
Until he’s asked to lend a lasting fame
To heroes’ actions in their latest wars.
 
A traveler who visits on a whim
Might note how many children look like him.

*****

J.D. Smith writes: “This poem is rooted perhaps as much in popular culture as in the long narratives of the past. Readers of a certain age will recognize the title as a variation on the VH-1 series Behind the Music, which documented the frequently seamy and hedonistic underside of bands’ and artists’ careers. I am also having a bit of fun with highly gendered work roles; this consideration strikes me as increasingly relevant given the rise and metastasis of the “manosphere” and its conflation of masculinity and predation. As for the final couplet, somewhere in the back of my mind was a running gag from King of the Hill. Hank Hill’s friend Dale, while obsessed with conspiracy theories, never quite figures out why his son bears a more than passing resemblance to another character on the program.”

J.D. Smith’s seventh collection of poetry, The Place That Is Coming to Us, will be published in September by Broadstone Books. His first fiction collection, Transit, is available from Unsolicited Press. Further information and occasional updates are available at www.jdsmithwriter.com.

Photo: “Old blind man winding yarn with a young girl watching, Arizona, ca.1898 (CHS-4572)” by Fæ is licensed under CC BY 2.0.