“Will you not come home, brother? you have been long away, It’s April, and blossom time, and white is the spray; And bright is the sun, brother, and warm is the rain, Will you not come home, brother, home to us again? The young corn is green, brother, where the rabbits run, It’s blue sky, and white clouds, and warm rain and sun. It’s song to a man’s soul, brother, fire to a man’s brain, To hear the wild bees and see the merry spring again. Larks are singing in the west, brother, above the green wheat, So will ye not come home, brother, and rest your tired feet? I’ve a balm for bruised hearts, brother, sleep for aching eyes,” Says the warm wind, the west wind, full of birds’ cries. _Selections from_ _POEMS AND BALLADS_ CARGOES Quinquireme of Nineveh from distant Ophir Rowing home to haven in sunny Palestine, With a cargo of ivory, And apes and peacocks, Sandalwood, cedarwood, and sweet white wine. Stately Spanish galleon coming from the Isthmus, Dipping through the Tropics by the palm-green shores, With a cargo of diamonds, Emeralds, amethysts, Topazes, and cinnamon, and gold moidores. Dirty British coaster with a salt-caked smoke stack, Butting through the Channel in the mad March days, With a cargo of Tyne coal, Road-rails, pig-lead, Firewood, iron-ware, and cheap tin trays. AN OLD SONG RE-SUNG I saw a ship a-sailing, a-sailing, a-sailing, With emeralds and rubies and sapphires in her hold; And a bosun in a blue coat bawling at the railing, Piping through a silver call that had a chain of gold; The summer wind was failing and the tall ship rolled. I saw a ship a-steering, a-steering, a-steering, With roses in red thread worked upon her sails; With sacks of purple amethysts, the spoils of buccaneering, Skins of musky yellow wine, and silks in bales, Her merry men were cheering, hauling on the brails. I saw a ship a-sinking, a-sinking, a-sinking, With glittering sea-water splashing on her decks, With seamen in her spirit-room singing songs and drinking, Pulling claret bottles down, and knocking off the necks, The broken glass was chinking as she sank among the wrecks. TWILIGHT Twilight it is, and the far woods are dim, and the rooks cry and call. Down in the valley the lamps, and the mist, and a star over all, There by the rick, where they thresh, is the drone at an end, Twilight it is, and I travel the road with my friend. I think of the friends who are dead, who were dear long ago in the past, Beautiful friends who are dead, though I know that death cannot last; Friends with the beautiful eyes that the dust has defiled, Beautiful souls who were gentle when I was a child. INVOCATION