30 *' BARBARRY CAMP ** 



men, dead long ages — thousands of years ago, who 

 burrowed night and day, and heaped the bank up 

 and called it a ring : 



And here we strove and here we felt each vein 

 Ice-bound, each Hmp foot frozen, all night long. 



And here we held communion with the rain 

 That lashed us into manhood with its thong, 



Cleansing through pain : 

 And the wind visited us and made us strong. 



Up from around us, numbers without name, 

 Strong men and naked, vast, on either hand 



Pressing us in, they came. And the wind came 

 And bitter rain, turning grey all the land. 



That was our game. 

 To fight with men and storms, and it was grand. 



For many days we fought them, and our sweat 

 Watered the grass, making it spring up green 



Blooming for us. And if the wind was wet 

 Our blood wetted the wind, making it clean 



With the hatred 

 And wrath and courage that our blood had been. 



So fighting men and winds and tempests, hot 

 With joy and hate and battle lust, we fell. . . . 



Wind that has blown here always ceaselessly, 



Bringing, if any man can understand. 

 Might to the mighty, freedom to the free; 



Wind that has caught us, cleansed us, made us grand. 

 Wind that is we. 



We that are men — make men in all this land. 



It is like the call of a trumpet to one who has long 

 been a listener to the sweet and soulful, enervating 

 sounds of citherns and citoles. 



// anyone can understafid ? Does anyone really 

 want to understand, especially just now when we 

 are lapped in a dream of peace — perpetual peace and 



