English

When an original copy of “Songs of Innocence,” etched and colored by the author, was left overnight on my pillow)
B E a god, your spirit cried;
Tread with feet that burn the dew;
Dress with clouds your locks of pride;
Be a child, God said to you.

Then with blood a wild sea-wave,
Then while Death drew near to look,
Firm your fingers grew and gave
Man and me this gentle book.

Dream that burns the dreamer mad
Swept you through and did not sere;
Forth you looked, a little lad;
Sang the songs that all may hear.

The bawl of a steer,
To a cowboy's ear,
Is music of sweetest strain;
And the yelping notes
Of the gray coyotes
To him are a glad refrain.

And his jolly songs
Speed him along,
As he thinks of the little gal
With golden hair
Who is waiting there
At the bars of the home corral.

For a kingly crown
In the noisy town
His saddle he wouldn't change;
No life so free
As the life we see
Way out on the Yaso range.

His eyes are bright
And his heart as light

When Old Dai goes down below,
He may still make Young Springtime brew;
But there's no Li Bo on the Terrace of Night,
So who in hell will he sell it to?

Beneath the blossoms with a pot of wine,
No friends at hand, so I poured alone;
I raised my cup to invite the moon,
Turned to my shadow, and we became three.
Now the moon had never learned about my drinking,
And my shadow had merely followed my form,
But I quickly made friends with the moon and my shadow;
To find pleasure in life, make the most of the spring.

Whenever I sang, the moon swayed with me;
Whenever I danced, my shadow went wild.
Drinking, we shared our enjoyment together;

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,

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!

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