I.

" Carry me out of the host, for I am wounded. "

The battle waged strong.
A fainting soul was borne from the host.
The tears robed themselves in the scarlet of guilt, and crowned with iron of wrong, they trod heavily on the wounded soul,
Bound close to the dark prison-walls, with the clanking chains of old Error.
Malice and Envy crept up the slimy sides of the turrets to mark out with gore-stained fingers the slow hours of the night.

The night we stayed at Summit Temple
I could reach up and touch the stars.
We did not dare to talk aloud
For fear of disturbing the men in Heaven

The battery grides and jingles,
Mile succeeds to mile;
Shaking the noonday sunshine,
The guns lunge out awhile,
And then are still awhile.

We amble along the highway;
The reeking, powdery dust
Ascends and cakes our faces
With a striped, sweaty crust.

Under the still sky's violet
The heat throbs on the air. . . .
The white road's dusty radiance
Assumes a dark glare.

With a head hot and heavy,
And eyes that cannot rest,
And a black heart burning
In a stifled breast,

I sit in the saddle,

Batt he gets children, not for love to reare 'em;
But out of hope his wife might die to beare 'em.

The barrier stone has rolled away,
— And loud the angels sing;
The Christ comes forth this blessed day
— To reign, a deathless King.
For shall we not believe He lives
— Through such awakening?
Behold, how God each April gives
— The miracle of Spring.

Barney McGee, there's no end of good luck in you,
Will-o'-the-wisp, with a flicker of Puck in you,
Wild as a bull-pup and all of his pluck in you--
Let a man tread on your coat and he'll see--
Eyes like the lakes of Killarney for clarity
Nose that turns up without any vulgarity,
Smile like a cherub, and hair that is carroty--
Wow, you're a rarity, Barney McGee!
Mellow as Tarragon,
Prouder than Aragon--
Hardly a paragon,
You will agree--
Here's all that's fine to you!
Books and old wine to you!
Girls be divine to you,

The bard who is singing of Wollombi Jim
Is hardly just now in the requisite trim
To sit on his Pegasus fairly;
Besides, he is bluntly informed by the Muse
That Jim is a subject no singer should choose;
For Jim is poetical rarely.

But being full up of the myths that are Greek —
Of the classic and " noble and nude and antique " ,
Which means, not a rag but the pelt on,
This poet intends to give Daphne the slip,
For the sake of a hero in moleskin and kip

Pony Boy though it's spring we're still apart
oriole songs in the warmth are at their fullest
separation seasonal change upsets me
quick and clever who chatters with you now
a canyon stream a road in the empty mountains
a rough gate a village among old trees
I think of you I grieve and almost sleep
toasting my back I lean on the sunny rail

Barber, barber, shave a pig,
How many hairs will make a wig?
Four and twenty, that's enough.
Give the barber a pinch of snuff.

Barb'd blossoms of the guarded gorse,
I love thee where I see thee shine:
Thou sweetener of our common-ways,
And brightener of our wintry days.

Flower of the gorse, the rose is dead,
Thou art undying, O be mine!
Be mine with all thy thorns, and prest
Close on a heart that asks not rest.

I pluck thee and thy stigma set
Upon my breast and on my brow;
Blow, buds, and plenish so my wreath
That none may know the wounds beneath.

O crown of thorn that seem'st of gold,
No festal coronal art thou;