Over here in England I'm helpin' wi' the hay,
And I wisht I was in Ireland the livelong day;
Weary on the English hay, an' sorra take the wheat!
Och! Corrymeela, an' the blue sky over it.

There's a deep dumb river flowin' by beyont the heavy trees,
This livin' air is moithered wi' the hummin' o' the bees;
I wisht I'd hear the Claddagh burn go runnin' through the heat,
Past Corrymeela, wi' the blue sky over it.

The people that's in England is richer nor the Jews,
There's not the smallest young gossoon but thravels in his shoes!

OVER A WILD and stormy sea
Shall a noble sail,
Who to find will not fail
A new and fair countree,
From whence he shall bring:
A Herb and a root
That all men shall suit,
And please both the plowman and the king;
And let them take no more than measure,
But shall have the even pleasure,
In the belly and the brain.
Carriages without horses shall go,
And accidents fill the world with woe.
Primrose Hill in London shall be
And in its centre a Bishop's See.
Around the world thoughts shall fly
In the twinkling of an eye.

I

Outward from the planets are blown the fumes of thought,
And the breath of prayer drifts out and makes a mist between the stars;

The void shall be void no longer,
And the caverns of infinity shall be fulfilled of spirit;

For in the wilderness between the worlds a sentience struggles to awaken,
Passions and ghosts and visions gather into a Form.

The God that we have worshipped for a million years begins to be,
And he whom we have prayed to creates himself out of the stuff of our prayers.

His wings are still heavy with chaos,

Outside the house an ash-tree hung its terrible whips,
And at night when the wind rose, the lash of the tree
Shrieked and slashed the wind, as a ship's
Weird rigging in a storm shrieks hideously.

Within the house two voices arose, a slender lash
Whistling she-delirious rage, and the dreadful sound
Of a male thong booming and bruising, until it had drowned
The other voice in a silence of blood, 'neath the noise of the ash.

Outside the city, desolate, an ancient terrace;
the story still is told — it once rained flowers here.
Winds whistle through the great gorge,
a thread of smoke floats up;
birds accompany reed sails
on tall masts as they return.
The ruined temple has a bell,
lonely in the dawn;
clear-voiced gibbons, dreamless,
cry out in sorrow at night.
Floating clouds I watch disperse
here, above my cup;
for some reason, in this land of the immortals
I think of the end of the world.

A Parody

Out where the talk is a little stronger,
Out where the trails are a blame sight longer,
That's where the West begins.
Out where the skirts are a little higher,
Where men are wilder and women shier,
Where we'll all blow away if it gets much drier —
That's where the West begins.

Out where the bushes are full of stickers
And the whole darn country is full of slickers,
That's where the West begins.
Where the lizards pant in the summer heat,

Out upon you, California!
Tuneful titles do adorn ya —
More than does your megalomania —
But, before you make your boast,
Upstart of our Western Coast!
Lend an ear to Pennsylvania:

Philadelphia — most colonial
Of our true Colonial Dames —
Curtsying, leads the ceremonial
March of quaint and State-ly names:
Bethlehem, Emmaus, Kingsessing,
Lititz, Darby, Conoquenessing,
Conshohocken, Tulpehocken,
King of Prussia, Shackamaxon,
Aliquippa, Lackawaxen,
Conestoga, Quakake, Trappe,
Punxsutawney, Hokendauqua,

Out, upon the deep old ocean,
Out, upon the trackless wave,
Tossed by winds in fierce commotion —
Men with hearts no longer brave —
Drifted a poor helpless vessel,
Driven by the winds at will;
Struggling sailors with her wrestle,
Lest they watery graves should fill.

All night long they toiled in rowing,
Striving their frail bark to guide —
Morning's streaks were longer growing,

Out they came from Liberty, out across the plains,
Two-stepping, single-footing, hard-boiled and easy-shooting
Whips cracking: oaths snapping â?¦
Hear those banjos wail —
Emigratin' westward on the Oregon Trail.

Fight through the heathens, Rickarees and Sioux,
Aim across the wagon-wheel and drill the varmints through.
Line 'em up, line 'em out, pray the tugs'll hold,
Wheels a-screeching glory through the sunset's gold;
Keep y'r musket handy, trigger on the cock,
Peel y'r eyes, kid, if you'd see old Independence Rock!

War's a joke for me and you,
While we know such dreams are true.
SIEGFRIED SASSOON

Out there, we've walked quite friendly up to Death;
Sat down and eaten with him, cool and bland, —
Pardoned his spilling mess-tins in our hand.
We've sniffed the green thick odour of his breath, —
Our eyes wept, but our courage didn't writhe.
He's spat at us with bullets and he's coughed
Shrapnel. We chorussed when he sang aloft;
We whistled while he shaved us with his scythe.

Oh, Death was never enemy of ours!