After All My Years Of Playing Soldiers,

Was It For This The Clay Grew Tall? O What Made Fatuous Sunbeams Toil To Break Earth's Sleep At All?

I Don't Ask Myself, Is The Life Congenial To Me? But, Am I Fitted For, Am I Called To, The Ministry?

Winter Song The Browns, The Olives, And The Yellows Died, And Were Swept Up To Heaven; Where They Glowed Each Dawn And Set Of Sun Till Christmastide, And When The Land Lay Pale For Them, Pale-snowed, Fell Back, And Down The Snow-drifts Flamed And Flowed. From Off Your Face, Into The Winds Of Winter, The Sun-brown And The Summer-gold Are Blowing; But They Shall Gleam With Spiritual Glinter, When Paler Beauty On Your Brows Falls Snowing, And Through Those Snows My Looks Shall Be Soft-going.

I Dreamed Kind Jesus Fouled The Big-gun Gears; And Caused A Permanent Stoppage In All Bolts; And Buckled With A Smile Mausers And Colts; And Rusted Every Bayonet With His Tears.

I Am Only Conscious Of Any Satisfaction In Scientific Reading Or Thinking When It Rounds Off Into A Poetical Generality And Vagueness.