The more I looke, the more I wonder still,
Having in sight how you stand on an hill,
On you how Earledoms two at once conferred,
Most honouredly you are therein preferred,
A Lord two severall Baronics you make,
Scots privy stale likewise you charge of take.

Ha man say I, you have a most hy lot ,
And 'tis your vertues raised you, else not
Most noble Lord had you attain'd so hy,
Into such honour'd place and dignity,
Let now the muses give a caveat though,
That forward still in vertues path you goe,

The old horse ferry is a democratic boat,
For she mixes up the classes more than any craft afloat;
And the cart of Bill the Bottlo, and the sulky of his boss,
Might stand each side the motor car of Mrs Buster-Cross.

O the old horse ferry is a parliament of man,
Where everything is settled, or left just where it began;
But the old horse ferry is a very peaceful scow,
For you seldom hear a swear-word, and you never hear a row.

It's a rest for weary horses from the hot hard roads and steep;

Ariding down along the stream,
Along the sparkling water,
And past the pool where lilies gleam,
There comes the squatter's daughter.

Her eyes are kind; her lips are warm;
And like a flower her face is;
The habit shows her bonny form
As graceful as a Grace's.

O I'll be mad of love, I know;
My head she'll surely addle;
O Cupid, Cupid; get your bow;
And shoot her from the saddle!

For, like a bird on breezes waft,
She quickly, quickly passes;
O Cupid, Cupid, draw your shaft;
And bring her to the grasses!

They towed the Seabolt down the stream,
And through the harbour's mouth;
She spread her wings and sailed away
To seek the sunny South.

But, ah! she met with storm on storm
Ere half her course had run;
And all her masts were torn away,
And all her boats save one.

The good old ship had settled far
Beneath her cargo line,
Her riven sides were drinking deep
The draughts of ocean brine.

I went to a school that was little and proper,
Both for church and for state a conventional hopper,
Feeding rollers that ground out their grist unwaiting;
And though it was clear from the gears' frequent grating
They rarely with oil of the spirit were smeared,
Yet no other school in that region appeared.
We had to go there till older; — though sorry,
I went there also, — but reveled in Snorre.

The self-same books, the same so-called education,
That teacher after teacher, by decrees of power royal,

Sundown to-night
Is not like something out in the world,
But like a memory
Seen in vague pictures of the mind ...

Ashes of sunset,
And mournful remembrances in grey
In some west beyond the west,
And the sickle moon
Like the sun's ghost remaining behind,
Tinted with the transient colors of the changing dusk,
And Earth
Mourning, not really, but in echoes
Through the windy darkness of phantom trees
And night
Closing cold on the heart ...

Closing cold
On the chill tomb of the shrouded memories ...
No moon-memories

Gathering the rains
of the wet season — swift
the Mogami River

(The Wounded Canadian Speaks)

My leg? It's off at the knee.
Do I miss it? Well, some. You see
I've had it since I was born;
And lately a devilish corn.
(I rather chuckle with glee
To think how I've fooled that corn.)

But I'll hobble around all right.
It isn't that, it's my face.
Oh I know I'm a hideous sight,
Hardly a thing in place;
Sort of gargoyle, you'd say.
Nurse won't give me a glass,
But I see the folks as they pass
Shudder and turn away;
Turn away in distress ...
Mirror enough, I guess.

Your house to guests has shelter lent,
While you with pen were seated.
In silent quest they came and went,
You saw them not, nor greeted.
But when now they
Were gone away,
Your babe without a mother lay,
And you had lost your helpmate.

The home you built but yesterday
In death to-day is sinking,
And you stand sick and worn and gray
On ruins of your thinking.
Your way lay bare
Since child you were,
The shelter that you first could share
Was this that now is shattered.

But know, the guests that to you came

I

The storm dies ...
Clouds,
Their black anger spent,
Soften into creamy gauze, and float apart, and heaven
Bathed, breaks blue ...

West
The low sun pours fire
Through a white well,
East
A rainbow
Trembles ...

Round us the Earth
Laughs rainily ...
The wet garden sparkles,
The wet robin sings ...

The hard rain flailed
Fragrance from grass and dust and mint and rose
And the air
Is perfume ...

We drink,