I look into the aching womb of night;
I look across the mist that masks the dead;
The moon is tired and gives but little light,
The stars have gone to bed.

The earth is sick and seems to breathe with pain;
A lost wind whimpers in a mangled tree;
I do not see the foul, corpse-cluttered plain,
The dead I do not see.

The slain I would not see... and so I lift
My eyes from out the shambles where they lie;
When lo! a million woman-faces drift

DEDICATION

You never came here; but I go
Here often and am met by you.
Each room and road here must renew
The thought of you and your form show
Standing with helpful hand extended,
As when long since in trust and deed
My home you from my foes defended.

So often, while I wrote this book,
The light shone from your genial eye;
Then we were one, both you and I
And what in silence being took;
So here and there the book possesses
Your spirit and your heart's fresh faith,

Baby at her breast
she tells him, " There're sardines
on the shelf " .

Lucius , their race is come on foot againe,
Vertues of Consuls Viscounts will maintaine,
Consull what ever Lucius can be found,
In any vertuous valour did abound:
Very well may you see it now reviv'd,
Set in this Lucius to the life enliv'd.

Consulls they were the most, and this great Peere
A Viscounts place in Scotlands land doth beare;
Replenisht were they with brave fortitude,
E'ne so is likewise Lucius here indeed,
You Lucius race may very right be read.

There were two brothers, John and James,
And when the town went up in flames,
To save the house of James dashed John,
Then turned, and lo! his own was gone.

And when the great World War began,
To volunteer John promptly ran;
And while he learned live bombs to lob,
James stayed at home and — sneaked his job.

John came home with a missing limb;
That didn't seem to worry him;
But oh, it set his brain awhirl
To find that James had — sneaked his girl!

Time passed. John tried his grief to drown;

What do they matter, our headlong hates, when we take the toll of our Dead?
Think ye our glory and gain will pay for the torrent of blood we have shed?
By the cheers of our Victory will the heart of the mother be comforted?

If by the Victory all we mean is a broken and brooding foe;
Is the pomp and power of a glitt'ring hour, and a truce for an age or so:
By the clay-cold hand on the broken blade we have smitten a bootless blow!

If by the Triumph we only prove that the sword we sheathe is bright;

When comes the real morning?
When golden, the sun's rays hover
Over the earth's snow-cover,
And where the shadows nestle,
Wrestle,
Lifting lightward the root enringèd
Till it shall seem an angel wingèd,
Then it is morning,
Real, real morning.
 But if the weather is bad
 And my spirit sad,
 Never morning I know.
 No.

Truly, it's real morning,
When blossom the buds winter-beaten,
The birds having drunk and eaten
Are glad as they sing, divining
Shining
Great new crowns to the tree-tops given,

Yo he visto los poetas de Occidente,
los he visto pasar frente a las tiendas,
los he visto cruzar una avenida
o detener su marcha en la luz roja
o leer un anuncio,
comprar ropa,
y algunos hasta entrando en una iglesia.

Es facil distinguirlos casi siempre,
llevan entre los ojos una mascara griega,
cierto aire de Goethe entre las cejas,
y un poquito de Dante
o de lord Byron
colado en la nariz o en las ojeras.

Su oficio es muy ilustre y muy antiguo,
hubo un tiempo en que fue hasta distinguido,
en que pudo decirse:

O my prow vas plack mit curses,
Ven I dries to write dose verses;
Ven I dries to write dot boem,
Dot de best was effer been.
All in vain my peer I guzzles,
But I gannod solve dot broblem,
“Who's dot Western Pulleteen?”

Und I swear mit pleets and dvonder,
Und I ferry often wonder,
Would dot paber's cirgulation
Shusta little pigger been,
If dey toog deir scissor-pinchers,
Shust to cut some leetle inches
From that smarty-smarty writer
Of dot Western Pulleeteen.

“Let dose mountains fall and hide us”

(TRANSLATED FROM THE ARABIC)

" Awake! Awake!
Spirits of air! "

" We sleep by day, and we watch by night,
And we flash on the darkness in meteor-light;
But a shade is over the mortal eye,
And it sees us not as we hurry by,
Well do we know that voice of thine,
We hear the word, and we see the sign. "

" Awake! Awake!
Spirits of Fire,
Come from the glow of the flames below,
And gather around your sire. "

" We come, we come as the lightening flies,