POEMS

BY THE SAME AUTHOR

The Napoleon of Notting Hill: A Romance. With illustrations by Graham Robertson.

Dissenters.

Traditional beliefs.

All things considered.

George Bernard Shaw. An illustrated biography.

The Ball and the Cross.

The Ballad of the White Horse.

The Innocence of Father Brown. Illustrated.

Father Brown's Wisdom.

Wow.

The Flying Inn.

JOHN LANE COMPANY PUBLISHERS NEW YORK

I

THREE DEDICATIONS

TO EDMUND CLERIHEW BENTLEY
TO HILAIRE BELLOC
TO M. E. W.

II

WAR POEMS

LEPANTO
THE MARCH OF THE BLACK MOUNTAIN 1913
BLESSED ARE THE PEACEMAKERS
THE WIFE OF FLANDERS
THE CRUSADER RETURNS FROM CAPTIVITY

III

LOVE POEMS

GLENCOE
LOVE'S TRAPPIST
CONFESSIONAL
MUSIC
THE DELUGE
THE STRANGE MUSIC
THE GREAT MINIMUM
THE MORTAL ANSWERS
A MARRIAGE SONG
BAY COMBE

IV

RELIGIOUS POEMS

THE WISE MEN
THE HOUSE OF CHRISTMAS
A SONG OF GIFTS TO GOD
THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN
A HYMN FOR THE CHURCH MILITANT
THE BEATIFIC VISION
THE TRUCE OF CHRISTMAS
A HYMN
A CHRISTMAS SONG FOR THREE GUILDS
THE NATIVITY
A CHILD OF THE SNOWS
A WORD

V

RHYMES FOR THE TIMES

ANTICHRIST, OR THE REUNION OF CHRISTENDOM: AN ODE
THE REVOLUTIONIST, OR LINES TO A STATESMAN
THE SHAKESPEARE MEMORIAL
THE HORRIBLE HISTORY OF JONES
THE NEW FREETHINKER
IN MEMORIAM P.D.
SONNET WITH THE COMPLIMENTS OF THE SEASON
A SONG OF SWORDS
A SONG OF DEFEAT
SONNET
AFRICA
THE DEAD HERO
AN ELECTION ECHO 1906
THE SONG OF THE WHEELS
THE SECRET PEOPLE

VI

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS

LOST
BALLAD OF THE SUN
TRANSLATION FROM DU BELLAY
THE HIGHER UNITY
THE EARTH'S VIGIL
ON RIGHTEOUS INDIGNATION
WHEN I CAME BACK TO FLEET STREET
A CIDER SONG
THE LAST HERO

VII

BALLADES

BALLADE D'UNE GRANDE DAME
A BALLADE OF AN ANTI-PURITAN
A BALLADE OF A BOOK-REVIEWER
A BALLADE OF SUICIDE
A BALLADE OF THE FIRST RAIN

THE DEDICATION OF THE MAN WHO WAS THURSDAY

A cloud weighed heavily on people’s minds, and the weather was mournful,
Yeah, a sick cloud spread over our souls when we were boys together.
Science declared nothingness, and art admired decay;
The world felt ancient and ended: but you and I were cheerful.
Around us, in twisted formations, came their crippled vices—
Lust that had lost its laughter, fear that had lost its shame.
Like Whistler's white lock, which illuminated our aimless gloom,
Men displayed their own white flags as proudly as a plume.
Life was like a fading fly, and death a drone that stung;
The world was truly ancient when you and I were young.
They twisted even decent sins into forms unnameable;
Men were ashamed of honor; but we weren’t ashamed.
Weak and foolish as we were, we didn’t fail in that way;
When that black Baal shaded the heavens, he received no hymns from us.
We were children—our sandcastles were as weak as we,
No matter how high we built them, they couldn’t withstand that bitter sea.
Foolish in our costumes, all jangling and absurd,
When all the church bells were silent, our cap and bells were heard.

Not entirely without help, we held the fort, our tiny flags unfurled;
Some giants struggled in that cloud to lift it from the world.
I rediscover the book we found, I feel the moment that flings
Far out of fish-shaped Paumanok some cries of cleaner things;
And the Green Carnation withered, like forest fires that sweep by,
Roared in the wind of all the world ten million blades of grass;
Or as sane and sweet and sudden as a bird sings in the rain
Truth from Tusitala spoke and joy out of pain.
Yeah, cool and clear and sudden as a bird sings in the grey,
Dunedin to Samoa spoke, and darkness became day,
But we were young; we lived to see God break their bitter charms,
God and the good Republic came back with arms:
We have seen the city of Mansoul, as it rocked and was relieved—Blessed
are those who didn't see, but being blind, believed.

This is a tale of those old fears, of those empty hells,
And only you shall understand the true meaning it reveals—
Of how colossal gods of shame could intimidate men and yet shatter,
Of how huge devils hid the stars, yet fell at a gunshot flash.
The doubts that were so easy to chase, so terrifying to withstand—
Oh, who will understand but you; yes, who will understand?
The doubts that drove us through the night as we talked endlessly,
And dawn had broken on the streets before it broke upon our minds.
Between us, through the peace of God, such truth can now be told;
Yes, there is strength in taking root, and good in growing old.
We have finally found common things, marriage, and a belief.
And I can safely write this now, and you can safely read.

THE DEDICATION OF THE NAPOLEON OF NOTTING HILL

For every small town or place
God made the stars just for them;
Babies gaze up with curious faces
And watch them caught in a tree:
You saw a moon from Sussex Downs,
A Sussex moon, still pristine,
I saw a moon that belonged to the town,
The largest lamp on Campden Hill.

Yes, Heaven is everywhere at home.
The large blue cap that always fits,
And so it is (calm down; they come
To finally reach their goal, my wandering thoughts,
So it is with the heroic thing;
This won't conclude with the end of the world,
And even though the gloomy machines swing,
Don't be too scared, my friend.

This didn't end by Nelson's urn
Where an eternal England sits—
Nor where your tall young men in turn
Sipped on death like it was wine at Austerlitz.
And when the scholars told us to pay attention
To what cold, mechanical events
Must happen; our souls said in the dark,
"Maybe, but there are more likely options."

More likely across these distant flats,
These bland, flat, open fields,
The drums will crash a waltz of war
And Death will dance with Liberty;
More likely the barricades will blast
Slaughter below and smoke overhead,
And death and hate and hell will declare
That men have discovered something to love.

Far from your sunny hills,
I had a dream; the streets I walked,
The bright straight streets shot out and met
The starry streets that lead to God;
The legend of an epic hour
As a child, I dreamed, and I still do,
Under the great grey water tower
That reaches the stars at Campden Hill.

Words, since my job is words, a dry burst of rhyme,
Exhausted by countless poets, defeated over and over,
Take them, you, who smile on strings, those finer sounds than mine,
The words that never deceive, brag, praise insincerely, or cause harm.

I extend a hand to my lady, another to my friend,
To whom you have also reached out; and so before the end
We four may pray, for all the years, whatever challenges come,
The only two prayers worth saying are to live and to remember.

The pale leaf falls with its color, but the green leaf turns to gold;
Those of us who have enjoyed being young will also find it good to be old;
Life that brings the wedding bell, the cradle and the grave,
Life is hard for the faint-hearted and only gentle to the courageous.

In the quiet of the last white winter, when all the past is ours,
Old tears are frozen like gems, old storms coated in frost like blossoms.
Dear Lady, may we meet again, stand together once more, we four,
Under the weight of the years, let's praise the earth once more.

White fountains falling in the sunlit courts,
And the Sultan of Byzantium smiles as they flow;
There’s laughter like the fountains in that face feared by all,
It stirs the dark forest, the darkness of his beard,
It curls the blood-red crescent, the crescent of his lips,
For the very heart of the earth shakes with his ships.
They’ve challenged the white republics up the coast of Italy,
They’ve surged across the Adriatic around the Lion of the Sea,
And the Pope has spread his arms in anguish and loss,
Calling the kings of Christendom for swords around the Cross.
The icy queen of England gazes into a mirror;
The shadow of the Valois yawns at the Mass;
From distant evening islands, faint echoes of the Spanish gun arise,
And the Lord on the Golden Horn laughs in the sun.

Dim drums thudding, barely heard in the hills,
Where on a nameless throne a crownless prince has moved,
Where, rising from a dubious seat and half-ruined stall,
The last knight of Europe takes weapons from the wall,
The last and lingering troubadour to whom the bird has sung,
Who once went singing southward when all the world was young.
In that massive silence, tiny and unafraid,
The sound of the Crusade comes along a winding road.

Strong gongs groaning as the cannons boom afar,
Don John of Austria is going to war,
Stiff flags straining in the cold night winds
In the dark black-purple, in the bright old-gold,
Torchlight crimson on the copper kettle-drums,
Then the drums, then the trumpets, then the cannons—and he comes.
Don John laughing in his brave, curled beard.
Spurring his stirrups like the thrones of all the world,
Holding his head high for a flag of all the free.
Love-light of Spain—hurrah!
Death-light of Africa!
Don John of Austria
Is riding to the sea.

Mahound is in his paradise above the evening star,
(Don John of Austria is going to war.)
He moves a mighty turban on the timeless houri's knees,
His turban woven from sunsets and seas.
He shakes the peacock gardens as he rises from his rest,
And strides among the treetops, taller than the trees,
And his voice through the garden is a thunder meant to summon
Black Azrael and Ariel and Ammon on the wing.
Giants and the Genii,
A multitude of wing and eye,
Whose strong obedience cracked the sky
When Solomon was king.

They rush in red and purple from the morning's crimson clouds,
From temples where the yellow gods shut their eyes in disdain;
They rise in green robes, roaring from the sea’s green depths
Where fallen skies, evil colors, and eyeless creatures linger;
On them the sea-valves cluster and the grey sea-forests curl,
Splashed with a splendid sickness, the sickness of the pearl;
They swell in sapphire smoke from the blue cracks of the ground—
They gather, marvel, and give worship to Mahound.
And he says, "Break open the mountains where hermit-folk hide,
And sift the red and silver sands lest a saint's bone abide,
And chase the infidels flying night and day, giving no rest,
For that which troubled us comes again from the west.
We have stamped the seal of Solomon on all things beneath the sun,
Of knowledge, sorrow, and the endurance of what’s done,
But a noise is in the mountains, in the mountains, and I know
The voice that shook our palaces—four hundred years ago:
It is he who utters not 'Kismet'; it is he who knows not Fate;
It is Richard, it is Raymond, it is Godfrey at the gate!
It is he whose loss is laughter when he counts the wager worth,
Step on him, that our peace be restored on earth."
For he heard drums groaning and he heard guns clash,
(Don John of Austria is going to war.)
Sudden and still—hurrah!
Speeding from Iberia!
Don John of Austria
Is off by Alcalar.

St. Michael's on his mountain in the northern sea-roads
(Don John of Austria is prepared and going forth.)
Where the grey seas glimmer and the sharp tides shift
And the sea-folk labor while the red sails lift.
He shakes his iron lance and claps his stone wings;
The noise has passed through Normandy; the noise has gone alone;
The North is filled with tangled things and texts and weary eyes
And all innocence of anger and surprise is dead,
And Christian kills Christian in a narrow, dusty fight
And Christian fears Christ who wears a newer face of doom,
And Christian hates Mary, whom God kissed in Galilee,
But Don John of Austria is riding to the sea.
Don John calling through the wind and gloom
Crying with the trumpet, the trumpet of his lips,
Trumpet that cries ha!
Glory be!
Don John of Austria
Is shouting to the ships.

King Philip's in his room with the Fleece around his neck
(Don John of Austria is armed upon the deck.)
The walls are dressed in velvet, black and soft as sin,
And little dwarfs creep out and in.
He holds a crystal phial that reflects colors like the moon,
He touches it, and it tingles, and he trembles also
And his face is like the fungus of a leprous white and grey
Like plants in high houses shuttered from the day.
And death is in the phial and the end of noble work,
But Don John of Austria has fired upon the Turk.
Don John's hunting, and his hounds have bayed—Booms
away past Italy the rumor of his raid.
Gun upon gun, ha! ha!
Gun upon gun, hurrah!
Don John of Austria
Has loosed the cannonade.

The Pope was in his chapel before dawn or battle began,
(Don John of Austria is hidden in the smoke.)
The hidden room in man's house where God resides all year,
The secret window from which the world looks small and dear.
He sees in a mirror the dread twilight sea
The crescent of his cruel ships, name unknown;
They fling great shadows forward, darkening Cross and Castle;
They hide the plumed lions on the galleys of St. Mark;
And above the ships are palaces of brown, black-bearded chiefs,
And below the ships are prisons, where with countless griefs,
Christian captives sick and sunless, all a laboring race laments
Like a people in sunken cities, like a nation in the mines.
They are lost like slaves who toil, and in the morning skies hang
The stairways of the tallest gods when tyranny was young.
They are countless, voiceless, hopeless as those fallen or fleeing
Before the high Kings’ horses in the granite of Babylon.
And many lose their minds in their quiet hellish room
Where a yellow face stares in through the lattice of his cell,
And he finds his God forgotten, and he seeks no more a sign(But
Don John of Austria has burst the battle-line!)
Don John pounding from the slaughter-painted deck,
Turning the ocean red like a pirate's boat,
Scarlet flowing over silver and gold,
Breaking through the hatches and bursting the holds,
Thronging thousands rising up who labor under woe
White for bliss and blind for sun and stunned for liberty.
Vivat Hispania!
Domino Gloria!
Don John of Austria
Has set his people free!

Cervantes on his galley puts the sword back in its sheath
(Don John of Austria rides homeward with a wreath.)
And he sees across a weary land a winding road in Spain,
Up which a lean and foolish knight forever rides in vain,
And he smiles, but not like Sultans smile, and settles back the blade....
(But Don John of Austria rides home from the Crusade.)

What will people remember
About us later?
Whose faith was a crushed ember
And even our doubt wasn’t free;
Governments made of paper,
And the gentle golden swords
That bend like a melted candle
In the hold of a vulnerable attacker;
A silence around Hunger, killing
A city of hungry serfs;
What will we leave as a saying
To praise us after we're gone?
But people will remember the Mountain
That broke its forest bonds,
And people will remember the Mountain
When it rises over the plains:
And name their children after it
And season and send and street,
When the Mountain came to Mahomet
And looked tiny beneath his feet.

His head was as high as the crescent
Of the moon that looked like his crown,
And on the glory of past and present
The light in his eyes gazed downward;
One hand stretched out to the morning
Over the killed Brahmin and Buddhist,
And one pointed to the West in scorn
At the scars of Spain;
One foot stood on the hills as a guardian
Where the small Mountain walks;
And one was in a garden
And stood on God's grave.
But people will remember the Mountain,
Even if it falls like a tree,
They will see the sign of the Mountain
Faith tossed into the sea;
Though the crooked swords defeat it
And the Crooked Moon rides freely,
When the Mountain comes to Mahomet
It has more energy than he does.

But what will there be to remember
Or what will there be to see—
Even as our towns through a long November
Last until the end?
The strength of slaves and workers
Whoever's iron is controlled by gold,
A peace born from fear,
Love that has grown cold with hate—
Are these a bribe or a warning
That we don't look to the sun,
Nor look to the lands of morning
Where are achievements finally made?
Where people will remember the Mountain
When truth misses the point—
And walk in the path of the Mountain
That was not in vain;
Death and darkness and comets,
Thunder and tearing seals:
When the Mountain came to Mahomet;
Because it was the finish.

Of old with a divided heart
I watched my people's pride increase,
Since a man's soul is torn apart
By Mother Earth and homeland.

I knew, through many tangled tales,
Glory and truth are not the same thing:
King, Constable, and Admiral
It hit me like trumpets: but I knew

A darker thing than blood's own stain
Great Hawkins was heavily burdened on the sea;
And Nelson turned his blindest eye
On Naples and freedom.

So, thank you, O throne,
O thousandfold and frozen folks,
For whose cold frenzies all your own
The Battle of the Rivers began;

Who have no belief that a man could mourn.
Nor does any man desire freedom;
But in a new clean light of scorn
I settle my disagreement with my ancestors;

Who bring my English heart to me,
Who fixes me like a broken toy;
Until I can see you fight and flee,
And laugh like I'm a boy.

Low, worn-out barns with thatched roofs, patched and tattered
Where I used to have seven sons until today,
A little hill of hay your spur has scattered....
This isn't Paris. You've lost your way.

You, staring at your sword, trying to see it’s brittle,
Surprised by the unexpectedness of your plan,
You, shaking and breaking barriers not a little
Will never again encounter the death door of Sedan.

Must I call you a claimant for more than just carnage,
I'll give you a penny for every son you kill.
Man, even if the whole world were gold, it wouldn’t repay
For what you have lost. How can I make it up to you?

What is the price of that red spark that caught me
From a nice farm that was never named?
What is the price of the dead man they brought me?
Other dead men don't look the same.

How can I pay for one poor carved steeple
Where you broke what you'll never understand,
How should I repay you, miserable people?
How should I pay you everything I owe?34

Unhappy, can I give you back your honor?
Even though I forgave, would any man truly forget?
While all the great green land has trampled over her
The betrayal and fear of the night we first encountered each other.

No longer in vengeance or in forgiveness
An elderly woman makes a deal for a bean that belongs to her.
You have no word to break; no heart to harden.
Keep going and thrive. You've lost your spurs.

I have emerged alive from a land of beauty and danger,
Where the attraction is just as strong as the pain, being selected to change perspective;
A struggle of silent dance and feasts without wine or noise,
Palace inside a palace, garden concealed behind a garden;

Women shaded by the sun, or exposed like metal in the shadows,
And the endless patterns without eyes where everything seems like it's being watched....
And my steps are on Caesar's sand as it leads to the English fields,
To the last low woods of Sussex and the road that goes to Rye.

In the cool and carefree woods, the gaze of the eunuchs didn’t burn,
But the wild hawk led the way, free to come back or wander,
The hills had broad, unaware backs; and the tree-tops didn’t turn,
The huts ignored me, and I realized I was home.

And I saw my lady from afar, her sacred freedom shining,
A head, uncovered, turned away, unaffected by allure,
And I heard above the fluttering flags the unyielding trumpets of honor,
That announcement with harsh laughter marks the arrival of Christian forces.

My shield hangs clean and ready; but I won’t go where it’s praised,
I still have my sword at my side, but I won't ride with the King.
Just to walk and walk and dazzle my soul and surprise it,
A day with the rock and the sparrow and everything amazing.

I have walked the curves of the Crescent, navigating those who worship it,
Curved around rooms without doors and hidden homes,
But I no longer wander in that maze; on the sign of the cross I pledged,
The wild white cross of freedom, the symbol of the crossroads.

And the land may abandon me or embrace me, and the Woman may accept me or dismiss me,
There won't be any more Night, or nightmares seen in glass;
But Life will keep me alive, and Death will never fool me
As long as I walk in England on the paths that let me through.

The starry cliffs look like they're hinged to the sky,
The clouds float like rags curled around them,
They open up to us like the gates of heaven
Cut through the last great wall of the entire world.

I looked and saw the valley of my soul
Where bare peaks struggle to reach the skies,
Where nothing grows, no wine or fruitful thing,
Only big words and starry blasphemies.

But you have covered the harshness of its primal wars
With mercy like moss;
Though they are barren and chaotic,
You know my shapeless cliffs have wed the stars.

How can I thank you, O brave heart,
You who feared nothing in this wasteful world;
You made it bloom in clear faith and sent
Your beautiful, flower-feeding rivers: just like here

The peat burns, overflowing from their stone cups,
Glowing brown and blood-red down the vast slope
As if Christ stood on that clouded peak
And turned its thousand waters into wine.

There’s a place where the lute and lyre are shattered.
Where scrolls are ripped apart and blown away by the wind,
Where tablets stand bare as a sign,
Where laurels fade and daisies spring up.

Look: I also join the brotherhood of silence,
I am Love's monk and you ask for nothing,
For man through Love’s gate, just like through Death’s gate,
Walks alone and doesn’t return again.

Yet here I stop, looking back over the threshold.
I call out to my peers, even though the world is old,
Prophets and wise ones, those who ask and those who doubt,
O world, old world, the best has never been revealed!

Now that I'm kneeling at the throne, O Queen,
Have pity and forgive me.
I've tried hard to express the same,
Sibling to beast and tree;
But when the stars find me alone,
Not a single linnet sings—
And a man's blood is a bitter sound
And cries out for silly things.

Don’t let me be known for my sorrow;
Wasn't I, since I was a boy,
Sworn by the helmet, spear, and spur
To the blood-red banner of joy?
A man can sing his psalms to a stone,
Spill his blood for a weed,
But a man's tears come suddenly,
And aren't tied to his creed.

No, the earth is kind to me,
Even though I long for a Star,
Leaves and grasses, feather and flower,
Cover the foolish scar,
Prophets and saints and seraphim
Lighten the burden with song,
And the heart of a man is a heavy load
For a man to carry along.

Sounding brass and clanging cymbals,
The one who created me blocked my ears,
And the show of flashy noises,
Waves of joy, waves of sorrow,

Thundered aimlessly around and past me,
Broken, lost forever.
Ancient gold of pride and passion,
Wrecked like treasure on a beach.

But I saw her cheek and forehead
Change, as if through a spoken word,
And I saw her head lifted
Like a lily to the Lord.

Nothing is lost, just transformed,
Ears are closed, but eyes have witnessed;
Saw her smiles (O soul be worthy!),
I saw her tears (Oh heart, stay pure!).

Though heavy rains block out the sun,
Here I stand as a symbol.
Though the Earth is filled with dark waters,
My cup is filled with wine.
Tell the trembling priests that here
Under the flood's force,
One nameless, tattered, broken man
I stood up and raised a toast to God.

The sun was once where rain is now,
Bees buzzing in the heat.
Maybe a humming maiden passed by,
Now let the flood begin:
Brown of halo, green of dress,
Straight as a arrow,
Raise a toast to the throne of thunder now!
Cheers to the anger of God.

High in the wreckage, I held the cup,
I held my rusty sword,
I adjusted my tattered feather
In praise of the Lord.
Heaven and earth weren’t undone,
This empty world flipped upside down,
Before one man stood up straight!
And emptied it like a cup.

Other loves may fade and fall apart, other loves may weaken and drift,
But I roam like a minstrel with a guitar on my back,
Even though the guitar is close to my heart, even though I strum and stress,
Still, my hope lies ahead: because I can’t play it yet.

In your strings is hidden a music that no hand has ever released,
In your soul is locked a joy that you haven’t experienced at all;
Joy subtle as your spirit, strange and delicate as your form,
Sharper than the pain that wraps around you, softer than the name of your sorrow.

Not like mine, my soul's chosen one, not like mine the carefree and light
Laughter of many faces, boastful pride of song and fight;
Something weirder, something sweeter, something waiting for you ahead,
Mysterious as your heightened senses, magical as your sorrows are.

But on this, God’s celestial harp, stretched just to be strummed once.
Aging Time is a novice, Life a clumsy fool, Death an idiot.
But I won’t be afraid to take them on—no, by God, I will not be afraid,
I will learn from you, I will play for you, and the stars will stand still to listen.

It means something to have cried as we have cried,
It means something to have done what we've done,
It means something to have watched while everyone else slept,
And seen the stars that never see the sun.

It means something to have smelled the mystical rose,
Even though it breaks and leaves behind thorny rods,
It means something to have hungered once like those
Who must hunger after eating the bread of gods.

To have seen you and your unforgettable face,
Brave like a blast of trumpets for battle.
Pure like white lilies in a watery space,
It would mean something, even if you left me today.

To have known the things hidden from the weak,
Dangerous ancient passions, strange and profound;
It means something to be wiser than the world,
It means something to be older than the sky.

In a time of doubting moths and cynical rust,
And overindulgent lives that are tired of their sweetness,
In a world of fleeting loves and fading desires,
It means something to be sure of a desire.

Look, blessed are our ears for they have heard;
Yes, blessed are our eyes for they have seen:
Let thunder break on man, beast, and bird
And the lightning. It means something to have existed.

.................STEP BACK—
WITH THE FAIRIES, HAND IN HAND,
FOR THE WORLD IS FULL OF TEARS
MORE THAN YOU CAN IMAGINE.

W.B. Yeats.

From the Wood of the Old Wives' Fables
They glimmered out of the gray,
And with all the Armies of Elf-land
I fought like a trapped animal;

With just one tired arm,
Just a worn red sword,
And the pride of the House of Adam
That disregards the stars above.

For they came with chains of flowers
And spears of lilies wild,
There in the peaceful greenwood
To remove my sorrow.

And I said, "Now everything is shaken
When the pressure rests heavily on the forehead,
When the hope of many years is gone
And the last star has disappeared. Now—

"Hear, you chattering cricket,
Listen, you being of the earth,
The strange, powerful cry in the darkness
One person praising God,

"That out of the night and nothingness
With the effort of childbirth, he arrived.
To stand for just one hour in the sunlight
Just to say her name.

"Sunshine falls through her hair
In showers; it connects, see,
Her high, bright cheeks as she turns;
Ah, Elfin Co.,

"The world is hot and harsh,
We are tired both emotionally and physically.
But the world is full of glory
"More than you can understand."

Why should we care about hours that tear apart
While we chill together?
The heavens ripped wide open
Just windy weather,
The strong stars shaken down in a rush
Would feel like a spring rain,
And we should listen to fate's trumpet
And listen to a songbird sing.

We break through with skill and luck,
The arrows fall like rain.
If you get hit, or I get hit,
There's one more to hit again.
If you support me, or I support you,
The strength is in both of us,
And good things come to an end and bad things end,
You and I stay.

Why should we worry about good or bad
Are we riding together?
The fires that fell on Sodom
It would just feel like hot weather.
Beyond all boundaries set for all men
Our journey is challenging and difficult,
We shall just wash our feet in heaven,
And warm our hands in hell.

Unborn battles and vast will see
Our worn flags wave,
New friends will come and new crazes arise.
New challenges will arise and flourish;
New friends will pass, but still renew
One truth that remains constant,
That I am me, and you are you,
And Death is just a morning dream.

Why should we care about scorn or praise
Are we riding together?
The icy air of godless times
It will just be chilly.
If hell were the highest place, if heaven
Were filled with sadness,
I would have figured everything was fair,
If I had dreamed about you.

I care little for empty pride,
Of beliefs colder than clay;
For nobler goals and longer journeys,
My lady is riding today.
To swing our swords and take our stand
In the final battle
When stars fall and darkness covers,
When God has to defend Himself.

Why should we care about laughter and pain
Are we riding together?
The triple thunders of the throne
Just stormy weather.
For us, the last great battle will roar,
On the final plains,
And we shall turn and once again
Talk about our love in English streets.

With leaves below and leaves above,
And reaching under tree after tree,
I found the home of my true love,
Who is a wandering home for me.

Who, lost in distant ruined worlds,
Wore the heavy dove wings like a roof;
Who, past the last lost stars in space
Carried the glow of fire on her face.

Who, passing through like in lazy hours,
Tamed the wild weeds into garden flowers;
Stroked the strange whirlwind's whirring wings,
And made comets feel like familiar things.

Where she went by on her way
The dark felt dearer than the day;
Where she paused in heaven or hell,
The whole world’s story ended well.

With leaves below and leaves above.
And groping under tree and tree,
I found the home of my true love,
Who is a wandering home for me.

Where she was flung, above, below,
By the rough dance of life and death,
She grows in Gotham—dies in Rome,
Between the pine trees is her home.

In some strange town, some silver morning,
She may have wandered to be born;
Stopped at some colorful crowd impressed,
And jokingly called them family.

If we thrive in goodness once more,
And the dead saints rise to live,
Then bald scholars and old parchments
May claim her blood for London town.

But leaves below and leaves above.
And groping under tree and tree,
I found the home of my true love,
Who is a wandering home for me.

The great gravestone she may pass by,
And without noticing, may die;
The streets of shining Heaven she may walk,
With her grey, haunting eyes unfed.

The city of great peace in pain
May pass until she finds again
This little house of holm and fir
God built before the stars for her.

Here in the fallen leaves is wrapped
Her secret center of the world.
We sit and feel in dusk and gray
The stars swing around us like a sun.

For leaves below and leaves above.
And groping under tree and tree,
I found the home of my true love.
Who is a wandering home for me.

Step softly, through snow or rain,
To find a place where people can pray;
The path is so clear and straightforward
That we might lose our way.

Oh, we've learned to examine and search
Through challenging puzzles since we were young,
We understand all the intricate knowledge,
We are the three wise men of old,
And we know everything except the truth.

We've gone around and around the hill,
And missed the big picture because of the details,
And learned long names for every problem,
And served the crazy gods, still naming
The Furies, the Eumenides.

The gods of violence have taken the veil
Of vision and philosophy,
The Serpent that brought all men trouble,
He bites his own cursed tail,
And calls himself Eternity.

Go humbly ... it has hailed and snowed ...
With soft voices and lanterns glowing;
The road is so very simple,
That we might deviate from it.

The world grows daunting and white,
And the breaking day was blindingly white;
We walk confused in the light,
For something is too vast for sight,
And something that's too obvious to mention.

The Child that existed before time began
We just need to walk a short distance,
We need only see a door unlatched,...)
The Child that played with the moon and sun
Is currently playing with some hay.

The house that feeds the heavens,
The old, unusual house that belongs to us,
Where tricks with words are never spoken.
And Mercy is as simple as bread,
And honor is as solid as a rock.

Go humbly; the skies are humble,
And look, the Star is vast and fierce;
So very close lies the Manger
That we can wander far.

Listen! Laughter like a lion awakens
To roar across the echoing plain,
And the entire heaven shouts and shakes,
For God Himself is reborn,
And we are little children walking
Through the snow and rain.

A mother wandered out
Of an inn, forced to roam;
In the place where she was homeless,
Everyone else feels at home.
The crazy stable nearby,
With shaky wood and shifting sand,
Became something stronger to stay and stand
Than the stone walls of Rome.

Because people feel homesick in their own homes,
And strangers under the sun,
And they rest their heads in a foreign land
Whenever the day is done.
Here we encounter battle and fiery eyes,
And chance, and honor, and great surprises,
Where the Christmas story began.

A Child in a dirty stable,
Where the animals eat and foam;
Only where He was homeless
Are you and I at home;
We have hands that create and heads that
But our hearts we lost—how long ago!
In a place no map or ship can show
Under the sky's dome.

This world is as wild as an old wives' tale,
And the simple things are strange,
The earth is enough and the air is enough
For our wonder and our fight;
But our rest is as far as the fire-drake flies
And our peace is placed in impossible things
Where unimaginable wings clashed and thundered
Around an incredible star.

To an open house in the evening
Home shall people come,
To a place older than Eden
And a town taller than Rome.
To the end of the path of the wandering star,
To the things that cannot be and that are,
To the place where God was homeless
And everyone is at home.

When the first Christmas gifts arrived, the straw where Christ was laid
Smelled sweeter than their frankincense, shone brighter than their gold,
And a wise man said, "We won't give; the gratitude would be cold."

"No," said the next, "To every new gift, to this one or another,
Bows the deep gratitude of God; just as He does now, my brother,
Who has a Father for all time, yet still thanks Him for a Mother.

"Yet hardly for Him does this yellow stone or prickly scents compare.
Who holds the golden heart of the sun that nourished these wooden bars,
Nor does any scentless lily bloom for One who scents the stars."

Then spoke the third Wise Man; the wisest of the three:
"We cannot with the widest lives expand His liberty,
Whose wings are broader than the world. It is not He, but we.

"We don’t say He has more to gain, but we have more to lose.
Less gold shall go astray, we say, less gold, if we choose,
To make harlots of the Greeks and hucksters of the Jews.

"Less clouds before colossal feet redden in the twilight,
To the blind gods from Babylon less incense burn tonight,
To the great beasts of Babylon, whose mouths mock what is right."

Babe of the thousand birthdays, we who are young yet grey,
White with the centuries, still can find no better words to say,
We who with sects and whims and wars have wasted Christmas Day.

Light Your censer to Yourself, for all our fires are dim,
Stamp Your image on our coin, for Caesar's face grows dim,
And a dumb demon of pride and greed has taken hold of him.

We bring You back great Christendom, churches and towns and towers.
And if our hands are glad, O God, to cast them down like flowers,
It's not that they enrich Your hands, but they are saved from ours.

Said the Lord God, "Build a house,
Build it in the valley of death,
Establish it in the depths of hell.
Where the hidden sea whispers,
Fires and storms, build it right."

They worked hard through flame and wind,
But soon they start crying,
"Lord, we doubt this is Your will,
We are blind and wonder why.
And the winds are still murmuring.

Said the Lord God, "Build a house,
Dig up its treasures from the ground,
With the chaotic forces of hell
Struggle with intangible strength and happiness,
Tribes and warriors, build it right."

Then the rough sons of men
Broke the ground and cut the wood,
But soon they cried out,
"Lord, we can't see Your kindness,"
And the wild men are still shouting.

Said the Lord God, "Build a house,
Smoke and metal, sparks and steam,
Speak and vote and buy and sell;
Let a new world vibrate and move,
Visionaries and creators, build it right."

The clever and strong men tried,
But soon they start crying,
"Lord, maybe we are just clay,
"And we can't figure out why,"
And the wise men still doubt today.

Yet though tired, deaf, and blind,
Strength and brutality, ruler and prophet
Still labor, they don’t know why;
At this dark foundation here,
They knead, plow, think, and toil.

Until at last, perhaps, out of this,
Fueled by passion and unity,
Love its crown and peace its foundation
The city of the Lord will rise.
That we are darkly building today.

Great God, who bends the sky and stars,
Humble our high thoughts before you,
And grant us through our struggling battles
The solid foundation of humility.

Lord, we who take up swords of fire,
Lord, we who speak out for Your cause.
We too are weak with pride and shame,
We are just like our enemies.

Yes, we are as mad as they are mad,
Yes, we are just as blind as they are.
Yes, we are very sick and sad
Who brings good news to everyone.

The heavy joy Your Son has sent
Is more than we can handle;
We find, like Cain with his punishment,
Our forgiveness is more than we can manage.

Lord, when we call You near and far
And shout across all unknown lands
The gospel into every ear,
Lord, let's not forget our own.

Cleanse us from the anger of belief or class,
The annoyance of the lazy people;
Sow in our souls, like living grass,
The laughter of all simple things.

Then Bernard smiled at me, so I could look
But I had already looked; caught a glimpse,
Faced the deep, unfathomable light of lights
Which is true on its own.

Then my vision was stronger than human words;
Words snapped before it like a quick magic trick;
And memory and everything time can teach
Before that amazing experience faded away.

As when one dreams and can’t remember
Upon waking, what brought him joy or pain,
With every detail of the dream forgotten,
The emotional impact of the dream stays with you:—

So am I; within whose thoughts there lives
No image of that scene or any part
Nor any memory: in whom resides
Only a joy in the heart,

A secret happiness that fills the heart
As the hills absorb the slowly melting snow,
Or as secret as that wind without a map
That took the wild leaves of Sibyl away.

O light lifted beyond all human knowing,
Send back a little bit of that glimpse of you.
So I may spark from its glory, glowing
One small flame for all future generations to see.

Passionate peace is in the sky—
And in the snow that’s sealed in silver
The animals are perfect in the field,
And men suddenly seem like men—
But grab ten swords and one hundred of them.
And sound the bugle to honor men;
For we represent everyone under the sun,
And they’re all against us, one by one;
And stingy people negotiate and crazy people grasp,
And there's a risk in giving too much praise.
And we have the awful tongues unleashed
That praises the world to the sons of the world.

The still humble hill and wood
Are bowed upon the sacred birth,
And for just one little hour the earth
Is lazy with the love of good—
(But you're prepared, and I'm prepared as well,
If the battle sounds and the guns continue.
For we represent everyone under the sun,
And they're all against us, one by one;
And the men who hate gather together,
For honor and riches, and the big white feather
And it's engraved in stars and stone.
That the men who love are all alone.

Hunger is hard and time is tough,
But bless the beggars and kiss the kings,
For hope has broken the heart of things,
And nothing was ever praised enough.
But lift the shield for a quick swing.
And direct the sword when you give praise to something,
For we represent everyone under the sun,
And they’re all against us, one by one;
And mimes and merchants, both noble and lowly
Hate us because we love everyone.
Only until Christmas arrives
Passionate peace is in the air.

O God of earth and altar,
Please kneel and hear our request.
Our leaders are failing,
Our people are lost and dying;
The walls of wealth trap us,
The blades of judgment divide us,
Don’t remove your power from us,
But remove our arrogance.

From all that fear teaches,
From lies told and written,
From all the shallow speeches
That comforts the cruel,
From the sale and disrespect
Of honor and the sword,
From sleep and from damnation,
Save us, good Lord!

Connect in a living bond
The leader, the priest, and the servant,
Unite all our lives,
Hit us and save everyone;
In anger and celebration
Driven by faith, and free,
Raise up a vibrant nation,
A single purpose for you.

TO BE SUNG A LONG TIME AGO—OR LATER

The Carpenters

St. Joseph to the Carpenters said on a Christmas Day:
"The master must have patience, and the apprentice must obey;
And you shouldn’t be harsh or wild with your women:
For my sake, your master, who has honored Wife and Child.
But gently you shall frame the fence, and gently carve the door,
And gently plane the table—as if to set it for the poor,
And all your thoughts be gentle and pure like the wood of the white tree.
But if they tear the Charter, let the alarm call out for me!
Let the wooden sign above your shop be prouder to be marked
Than the lion shield of Lancelot that hung at Joyous Garde."

THE SHOEMAKERS

St. Crispin to the shoemakers said on a Christmastide:
"Who makes shoes for others will gain no pride.
They were bleeding on the Mountain, the feet that brought good news,
The latchet of whose shoes we were not worthy to unlace.
Make sure your feet don’t offend, nor hold your head too high,
Tread softly on the sunlit roads, the bright dust of the dead.
Let your own feet be wrapped in peace; be humble all your lives.
But if they touch the Charter, you must defend it with your knives.
And the blades of the common people drive in tightly as a group
As once a rush of arrows fell, upon St. Crispin's Day."

THE PAINTERS

St. Luke to the painters on Christmas Day said:
"Make sure the robes are white that you dare to dip in gold and red;
For only kings can give gold, and only saints can give blood;
And his high task becomes dangerous who mixes them in paints.
Keep the ancient order; follow the masters who understood
The maze of black and white, the puzzle of green and blue;
Paint grand things, paint small things, paint silly things or sweet.
But if men break the Charter, you may take them down on the street.
And if you paint one post for them, then ... but you know it well,
You paint a harlot's face to drag all heroes down to hell."

ALL TOGETHER

Almighty God to all mankind on Christmas Day said He:
"I pulled you from the old red hills and, tearing, made you free.
There was a charter, there was a challenge; in a breath I gave;
You can be anything else; you cannot be a slave.
You shall be weary and tolerant of fancies as they fade,
But if men doubt the Charter, you shall summon the Crusade—
Trumpet and torch and catapult, cannon and bow and blade,
Because it was My challenge to all the things I made."

The thatch on the roof was golden,
Even though the straw was dirty and worn out,
The wind sounded like trumpets,
Even though it was windy and freezing,
The mother's hair was beautiful
Even though it was frayed and ripped,
For under the eaves in the twilight
A baby was born.

Countless children have been born.
Countless children have aged,
Grown unwanted and bitter,
Have you become clever, harsh, and cold?
God remains with a terrible patience,
Not angry, tireless,
And again for the child that was wasted
A baby is born.

What do we know of the ages behind us,
Lost dynasties from long ago,
Huge empires, like forgotten dreams,
Massive cities that have been turned into ruins?
This at least—that with destruction and blessing
With beauty and pain,
Love was there, and his cry was among them,
"A baby is born."

Though the darkness is filled with systems,
Dark thoughts that haunt and reject,
Still the feathers stir around us, above us
The wings of love's shadow:
Oh! leaders and priests, have you seen it
Fade due to your disdain.
Great dawns await us, deep transformations,
A baby is born.

And the rafters of labor are still shining
With the glow of the heart's star,
And the wise men come close in the twilight,
Sick of studying and creativity,
And the tyrant's face has darkened.
He feels torn inside,
For a new King is crowned; yes, the sternest,
A baby is born.

And the mother still rejoices at the whispered
First stir of unexplainable things,
Still feels that high moment unfolding
The red brilliance of Gabriel's wings.
Still the baby of an hour is a master
Whom angels decorate,
Emmanuel, prophet, anointed,
A baby is born.

And you, still in your cradle,
The sun is a crown on your head.
Respond, our nature, make a response,
So, where are you from—who are you?
Have you returned to Earth to teach us
To guide or to warn?
Hush—how can we know?—only knowing
A baby is born.

A hymn is heard when the windows are dim
And never before or after,
When the nights are thick with a long darkness,
The night is filled with rain.

We only feel this in sleet and snow,
The place where the large fires are,
That the center of the earth is a wild joy
And the heart of the earth is a star.

And at night we arrive at the old inn
Where the child is covered in frost,
We follow the path where all souls gather
At the inn at the end of the world.

The gods lie dead where the leaves are red,
The sun's light has faded away.
The gods lie cold where the leaves are gold.
And a child appears alone.

A word emerged in Galilee, a word like a star;
It soared and echoed, blessing and burning wherever brave hearts are;
A word of sudden secret hope, of trials and growth
Of anger and compassion blended in fire, and passion touching peace.
A star that called to the cities of the world, a sword of flame;
A star with countless thundering voices: a powerful word was spoken.

The wedge's strike pierced it, the groan of wooden carts,
The ringing of nails being hammered, the screeching of planes;
The pounding on the roofs at dawn, the busy workshop's noise;
The hiss of shavings flying deep across the breezy floor;
The heat-browned worker's soft song, the hum of humanity’s worth—
All mixed in the noise of crafts, the resonating word spread forth.

The splash of nets entered it, the grind of sand and shell,
The clash of boat hooks, the clattering of oars, the calls to buy and sell,
The flapping of caught fish, the canvas snapping free,
And through all the varied sounds and cries, the roaring of the sea,
The noise of small, brave lives, of those in need and those in power;
In gathering the struggles of the earth, the living word flowed by.

Earth's great sins bowed to it, in the shadow of empires,
When darkness lingered above thrones, seven thunders on her lips,
The suffering of cities filled it, the clang of idols crashing,
The screams of corrupt rulers cut high in their audacious halls,
The dim hoarse cries of naked men, the world’s kingdoms strained,
The trumpets of the end times, the darkness covering the land:

The wrath that shattered the eternal light and obscured the eternal hill,
A world on the brink of ruin, the word pressed on still—
The blaze of beliefs passed into it, the hissing of terrible fires,
The rushing spear, the bloody cross, the hair shirt and thorns,
The chanting of cloistered brothers, the song of the wandering warrior,
The shifting of crowns and thrones, the intertwining of the powerful.

The crashing downfall of crest and crown and shield and cross and cope,
The rending of the adornments of time, the decay of prince and pope,
The reign of ragged millions teaming up to dismantle burdensome debts,
Loud with the many-voiced roar, the word surged forward still.
The sound of wheels passed into it, the roaring and the smoke,
The riddle of want and wages, the fogs that burn and choke.
The breaking of the bonds of gold, the needs that rise and swell.
The strengthening hope, the dazzling light, the overwhelming evangel,
Through fallen kingdoms and damned empires, through changes without end,
With earthquakes and chaos, born and fed, rose,—and the word was "Peace."

"A BILL THAT HAS ANGERED EVERY
CHRISTIAN COMMUNITY IN EUROPE.
Mr. F.E. Smith, ABOUT THE WELSH DISESTABLISHMENT BILL.

Are they holding onto their crosses,
F.E. Smith,
While the Breton fishing boats are bobbing,
Are they, Smith?
Do they, fasting, marching, bleeding,
Are we waiting for news from our city?
Groaning "That's the Second Reading!"
Hissing, "There's still a committee."
If Cecil's voice wavers,
If McKenna makes a compelling argument,
Do they fear for their altars?
Do they, Smith?

Russian peasants around their pope
Huddled, Smith,
I hope they hear about it all,
Don't they, Smith?
In mountain villages wearing
Clothes from the Caucasus,
Where Establishment means nothing
And they’ve never heard of Wales,
Do they read it all in Hansard
With a guide to help them understand—
"Welsh Tithes: Dr. Clifford Responded,"
Seriously, Smith?

In the lands where Christians lived,
F.E. Smith
In the small lands laid bare,
Smith, oh Smith!
Where the Turkish forces are active,
And the Tory name is celebrated.
Since they welcomed the Cross of Dizzy
On the banners from the West!
Men don’t find it so difficult if
Islam poses a threat to their family and home,
Since a curate lives in Cardiff
Saved by Smith.

It would really, I must admit,
Calm me down, Smith,
If you steered clear of this topic,
Holy smokes!
For your legal battle or civil
You fight well and earn your payment;
For your God or dream or devil
You will respond, not to me.
Talk about the pews and steeples
And the money that comes with it!
But the souls of Christian people....
—Forget it, Smith!

"I was never on the sidelines during a revolution.
WAS GOING ON.—Speech by the Rt. Hon. Walter Long.

When Death was beating its drums, Democracy,
And with one surge of the oppressed the world was free,
In that bright dawn that Kings won’t forget,
There was a gap, and Walter wasn’t there yet.
Through looted Versailles, at Valmy in the battle,
They managed without him somehow;
Red Christendom, all without Walter, they crossed,
And in their rage hardly felt their loss....
The Republic fades; faint like Roland's horn,
Her trumpets mock us with sacred scorn....
Then silence fell; and Mr. Long was born.

From his first moments in his lavish crib
He never witnessed the tiniest viscount get shot.
To please his wealthy parents' wishes
The wildest massacres were kept from his sights.
The wars that stained Pall Mall and Brompton red
Skipped over that one unaware head:
For all that little Long could comprehend
The rich might still be rulers in the land.
Useless are the righteous efforts of parenthood,
Foiled Revolution bubbled in his blood;
Until one day (the unborn babe would regret it)
The Constitution bored him, and he ended it.

If I were wise and good and rich and strong—
What a tempting thought, if I were Walter Long—
If I could sell water like it was molten gold,
And make adults do what they are told,
If over private fields and vast stretches
As a Greek city where heroes died,
I owned the houses and the people inside—
If all this rested on one thin thread of habit
I wouldn’t even revolutionize a rabbit.

I would sit tight with all my gifts and glory,
And even preach to unconverted Tories,
That the established system our land inherited,
Viewed from a certain angle, has its benefits.
I'd protect the laws like any Radical,
And uphold every precedent, no matter how small,
However subtle, misty, dusty, dreamy,
Lest people by chance look at me and see me;
Lest people should ask what madman made me lord
Of English ploughshares and the English sword;
Lest people should notice how sleepy is the nod
That imprints the terrifying images of God!

Walter, be smart! Avoid the chaotic and new,
The Constitution is the game for you.
Walter, beware! Don’t mock the gathering crowd
It suffers, yet it won’t suffer wrong,
It suffers, yet it cannot suffer Long.
And if you push it to break these grey rules,
For a few coins, make sure you don’t awaken
Death and the glory of the scarlet cap,
Boston and Valmy, Yorktown and Jemmappes,
Freedom in arms, the riding and the routing,
The roar of the leaders and the shouting,
All that lost chaos that you didn’t share—And
when that chaos comes—you will be there.

Lord Lilac thought it was pretty unfair
That Shakespeare should be ignored
So he joined a committee
With several guys from the city.
And Shorter and Sir Herbert Tree,
Lord Rothschild and Lord Rosebery
And F.C.G. and Comyns Carr,
Two dukes and a dramatic star,
Plus a clergyman now gone;
And while the self-absorbed world moved on
Unaware of the heroic name—
The souls most filled with Shakespeare's fire
Still sat united in a circle,
Remembering him like it was everything.

Lord Lilac didn't stay long.
Lord Lilac didn't come back.
He quietly lit a cigarette
And looked for another social group
Where, in different circles,
People were doing cultured things,
—Miss Zwilt's Humane Vivarium
—The little guys who paint on gum
—The fabulous Gorilla Girl....
Sometimes, in this dizzying mix
(Not being truly bad at heart),
He thought of Shakespeare with a jolt—
But not with that strong dedication
Of Clement Shorter, Herbert Tree,
Lord Rosebery and Comyns Carr
And all the other names out there;
Who clung like limpets to the place,
Fearing they'd forget, fearing they'd forget.

Lord Lilac was made of lighter stuff;
Lord Lilac had seen enough.

Jones had a dog; it had a chain;
Not often worn, not causing pain;
But, as the I.K.L. passed
Their "Unleashed Cousins Act" at last,
Inspectors took the chain away;
Whereat the dog barked "hurray"!
At which, of course, the S.P.U.
(Whose Nervous Motorists' Bill was through),
Were forced to take the dog away
For being Loud and at Large.
None, you’ll say, were now annoyed,
Except maybe Jones—the yard was void.
But something in the lease
About "alarms to aid police,"
The U.S.U. seized the yard
For having no adequate guards.
Now if there’s one condition
The C.C.P. is strict about
It’s that every house you buy
Must have a yard for exercise;
So Jones, as a tenant, was unfit.
His health proved that without a doubt.
Two doctors from the T.T.U.'s
Told him his legs from long disuse,
Were wasting away; and saying "So
From step to higher step we go
Until everything is New and True,"
They cut his legs off and withdrew.
You know the E.T.S.T.'s views
Are stronger than the T.T.U.'s:
And soon (as they say) took flight
The Arms, though not the Man, I cite.
To see him sitting limb-less there
Was more than the K.K. could bear
"In mercy, silence that mouth
Since there are no hands to feed it out;
What cruel sentimentalist,
O Jones, would doom you to exist—
Clinging to selfish Selfhood still?
Weak one! Such reasoning could chill
The Pump Act, and the assemblage
Of all constructive legislation;
Let’s build you up a bit—"
The head fell off when it was hit:
Then words rose and honest doubt,
And four Commissions gathered about
Whether the slash that left him dead
Cut off his body or his head.

An author in the Isle of Wight
Observed with clear delight
A land of old and just renown
Where Freedom slowly broadened down
From Precedent to Precedent....
And this, I think, was what he meant.

John Grubby, who was short and stout
And struggled with faith and doubt,
Refused, at about the age of three,
To sit on the curate's knee;
(For this is how the eternal fight goes on
Between the spirit of the age
And Dogma, which, as everyone knows,
Simply hates being outgrown).
Grubby, the young idea that bursts forth,
Outgrew the ages like old shoes;
While still, to all appearances, small,
Would have no Miracles at all;
And just before he turned ten
He firmly rejected Free Will for men.
The altars trembled, the hen-ens shook,
Just like he read about in the book;
Out of his house the youth went forth
Alone with storms and the Truth,
Heading to the far-off city and murky
Where his dad had gotten for him
A partnership in Chepe and Deer
Worth, say, twelve hundred pounds a year.
But he was determined. Lord Brute
Had found him useful; and Lord Loot,
With whom few other men would join,
Appreciated his quickness and skill;
Never did even charity
Make a man richer so quickly:
It was he who ended the Coal Strike,
For hungry children tore at his heart;
To end their suffering right then
He filled the mines with Chinamen—
Sat in that House that overthrew kings,
And voted for all sorts of things—
And rose from Under-Sec. to Sec.
Some complained. Detractors who showed less
Than generous respect for success,
The little printers in Dundee
Who received ten years for blasphemy,
(Though he let them off with seven)
Respect him rather less than heaven.
No matter. This can still be said:
Never to supernatural fear,
Never to an unseen deity,
Did Sir John Grubby bow the knee;
Never did thoughts of hell or wrath
Turn Viscount Grubby from his path;
Nor was he tempted by mythical bliss
To kneel to any world but this.
The curate lives in Camden Town,
His lap still empty of renown,
And still, across the stretch of years,
John Grubby, in the House of Peers,
Faces that curate, proud and free,
And never sits upon his knee.

NICE, JANUARY 30, 1914.

If anyone curled up in a cozy island cradle
Can make offerings to you,
You who, in the darkest times, blew
A bugle through the world's darkness,

An English hand would touch your shroud with trust
That truth would be spoken again in English.
And we too might still practice what we preach,
Even if it means practicing the bayonet thrust.

Cutting that giant neck from shore to shore,
From sea to sea; it was a minor thing
Next to your sudden shout and sabre-swing
That took down thieves in every land.

Don’t worry if fools mock your broken blade:
Money is our master and does everything wrong.
You are the fool who charged at a windmill. Still,
The Miller is a crook; and he was afraid.

Put down your sword. Ruin will find her own.
Let each weak politician sow his wild oats,
Or change his allegiance to decorate himself,
Or take the throne and die by the throne.

Put down your sword. And let the White Flag fade
To grey; and let the Red Flag fade to pink,
For those who climb and climb; and cannot sink
As deeply as death and honor, Déroulède.

TO A WELL-KNOWN LEADER WHO DESERVES A LOT OF CONGRATULATIONS
ON AVOIDING A STRIKE AT CHRISTMAS.

I know you. You will celebrate the big relief,
Saying that the sheathing of a thousand swords,
In silence and injustice, fits well
With Christmas bells. And you will cover with lies
The papers, the employers, the police,
And spew out the emptiness of your empty words
To your New Christ; who doesn’t carry a whip
For those who trade in the doves of peace.

The feast of friends, the candle-laden tree,
I have not failed to honor. And I say
It would be better for people like us,
And we be closer to Bethlehem, if we lay
Shot dead on scarlet snows for freedom,
Dead in the daylight on Christmas Day.

"A herd of cattle entered a village called"
SWORDS, AND WAS STOPPED BY THE RIOTERS."—-Daily Paper.

In the place called Swords on the Irish road
It’s told for a new fame
How we handle the horns of the cattle, and how
We’ll hold the horns of the devil now
Before the lord of hell, with the horn on his head,
Is crowned in Dublin

Light in the East and light in the West,
And light on the cruel leaders,
On the souls that suddenly became known to all,
And the green flag flew and the red flag flew,
And many wheels of the world stopped, too,
When the cattle were halted at Swords.

Whether they’re sinners or not
That strike in the street out of rage,
We know where the shame shines bright; we know
You that they strike at, you their enemy,
Lords of the lawless pay and low.
This is your deserved pay.

You pinched a child to a torturous price
That you dared not name in words;
So dark a joke was the silver bit
That your own voice shook from the shame of
And the coward was obvious as a cow they struck
When the cattle have roamed around Swords.

The wheel of the torment of wives went round
To break men's brotherhood;
You gave the good Irish blood to grease
The clubs of your country's enemies;
You saw the brave man beaten to his knees:
And you saw that it was good.

The rope of the rich is long and long—
The longest of hangman's cords;
But the kings and crowds are holding their breath,
In a giant shadow over all below
Where God stands holding the scales of Death
Between the cows and Swords.

Perhaps the lords that hire and lend,
The lowest of all men's masters,
Who sell their kind like cattle at a fair.
Will find no heads of their cattle there;
But faces of men where cattle used to be:
Men's faces—and swords.

And the name shining and dreadful,
The harshest of all man's words,
Still marks that place to seek or avoid,
In the streets where the struggling cattle run—
Grass and a silence of judgment passed
In the location known as Swords.

The line breaks and the guns go down,
The nobles and the servants ride across the plain;
I take deep breaths of the dawn and thunder,
And my whole heart feels young again.
For our leaders said "Done," and I didn’t believe it;
Our visionaries said "Peace," but it wasn't peace;
The world will get worse until people redeem it,
Wars will become increasingly terrible before all wars come to an end.
But the old flags wave and the old drums rumble.
Once in my life, they hit and influenced me;
I have found my youth in the lost battle,
I have discovered my heart on the battlefield.
For those of us who struggle until the world is liberated,
We don't feel comfortable with victory:
We’ve known each other for too long, my brother,
And fought against each other, the world and us.

And I dream of the days when work was tough,
And we hardly ever had any change in our pockets,
When we were angry and poor and happy,
And proud to see our names published.
That’s how they conquered and that’s how we scattered,
When the Devil rode and his dogs detected gold,
And the peace of innocent people was shattered;
When I was in my 20s.
When the mixed men that the market classes
Had greasy hands on England's control,
And with swords in hand across Africa’s paths
Her final Republic called out to God.
For the men that no lords can buy or sell,
They're not comfortable when things are going smoothly.
They have shared things that nothing can hold back,
They've encountered each other, our souls and hell.

It’s all the same as before; the empty noise.
The Nothing was written on a five-foot page,
The merchant who, mocking holy anger,
Angrily colors his face with rage.
And the faith of the poor is weak and limited,
And the pride of the wealthy is up for grabs,
And the chosen messengers of England’s Marshal
Are the sandwich board guys of the "Daily Mail"?
And those who are stingy dare not give are overfed,
And the timid who are afraid to fail are strong,
So while the City of Struggle is torn apart,
I sit in the saddle and sing my song.
For those of us who fight until the world is free,
We find no solace in winning;
We have seen through each other like Cain did with his brother,
We know each other, these slaves and us.

WHEN A LANDLORD IS ACCUSED (UNTRULY, FOR
ALL THE BARD CAN SAY) ABOUT NEGLECTING ONE OF THE
MANY WHITE HORSES THAT WERE OR WERE NOT
LINKED TO ALFRED THE GREAT

If you’ve cleaned up your yard of leaves and snails,
If you’ve told your servant, even with swearing,
Once a week or so, to brush your clothes.
If you’ve dared to clean your teeth or nails,
While the Horse on the holy mountain fails—
Then may God, who bound Alfred to his land,
Send upon you all that honor hates,
Horsing, debts, and Daily Mails.

Can you not even take care? For if indeed
The White Horse fades; then closer comes the fight
When we scour the face of England white,
Pulling up men like you as if they were weeds,
And tossing them far beyond a shot
When Wessex went to battle for the faith.

A sleepy people, without priests or kings,
Dreamed here, people say, to push us to the sea:
Oh let us push ourselves! Because it’s free
And smells of honor and English things.
How did we end up fighting by these bitter springs,
Are we from the North?—two friendly nations—are we?
Though the dice rattle and the clear coins ring,
This isn't a place for the living.
Leave them the gold that toiled and complained for it,
Let those who have no homeland anywhere
Be comfortable here, well-fed, and enjoying the good life;
But we, whose sins were human, will leave
Leave these vultures in the land of blood.
Quietly content, surviving on the deceased.

We never saw you, like our fathers,
For whom your face symbolized Freedom,
Nor do we know what official roles and connections
Could connect so deeply;
We don't know if the politicians back then
Were like the ones we see today,
We know that under your gaze
England didn't mock Liberty.

Yes, this much is clear about you,
We know that it wasn't until you were quiet,
Not until your journey was loudly proclaimed,
Did greed witness the rise of its kingdom?
The songs of theft, the mercenary swords,
The clerks who were enthusiastic, the soldiers who ran away,
The empire of the world's desire,
The mess of all the dirt started.

The happy, jeweled foreign men
Then worked just like a bit of yeast;
From some more modest palace then
The soul of Dives stank to high heaven.
But when they schemed with whispers and sneers
Their calculated attack on the vulnerable,
They struck your body on its coffin,
Sure that you couldn't talk.

A hero died in the desert;
People pleaded for the saints to bury him.
And around the grave, they should guard and ride,
A Cherubim knightly order.
God said: "There is a better place,
A grander trophy and taller;
The beasts that fled from his presence
Will come to attend his funeral.

"The mighty vermin of the void
That hid from the aim of his bow,
Shall emerge from caves, overjoyed,
Jackals, snakes, and scavenger crows.
And perched above the vulture's eggs,
Flipped over on its gross head,
A blue-faced ape will wave its legs
To let everyone know that he has died.

This is their trumpet, fully formed and loud,
They've burned the wheat and gathered the scraps,
And we who have fought them, we who have watched them,
Don't we at least have a reason to laugh?

We may have stumbled low, but at least we stood—
We’ve been dead, but not so dead
As those who live off the lives they wasted,
As those who drink from the blood they spilled.

We never bragged about what we messed up,
We never clung to our failures,
We never flinched from the laughter of the living,
To wail for the dead who can’t tell stories,

It was another finger that pointed
At our lost men and our empty bags,
It wasn’t us who sounded the trumpet
In front of the triumph of wreckage and rags.

Don’t fear these, they've made their deal,
They’ve counted the cost of their last raids,
They've staked their lives on things that don’t last,
They’ve burned their house for a fire that fades.

Five years ago, we might have feared them,
Been beaten by the coward and schooled by the fool;
Truth can last and be spoken and echoed,
But a lie can only be young once.

Five years ago, we might have feared them;
Now, when they raise their victorious heads,
Nothing will come from our gathered forces
But a laugh like thunder. We know them now.

WRITTEN ON A FRIDAY AND SATURDAY IN AUGUST 1911.

King Dives was waiting in his garden all alone,
Where his flowers are made of iron and his trees are made of stone,
And his hives are full of thunder while lightning strikes and kills,
For the mills of God grind slowly; and he works with other mills.
Dives found a deep silence; and he missed the pulse and rush,
The sound of all the restless creatures singing him to hush.
And he said: "A screw has fallen—or a bolt has slipped away—
Something little has shifted": and the little things replied:

"Call on the wheels, master, call on the wheels;
We are taking a break, master, feeling how it feels,
Strict the law of yours and mine: we always shun theft—
All the wheels are yours, master—tell the wheels to go!
Yes, the Wheels are mighty gods—set them in motion then!
We are just humans, master, have you heard of humans?

"Oh, they live on earth like fish, and a gasp is all their breath.
God for empty honors only gave them death and scorn of death,
And you walk on worms for carpet and tread on stones that squeal—
Only, God who made those worms did not make them wheels.
Humans will shut their hearts against you and you won't find the spring.
Humans who want what they cannot have—the unbearable thing—
Once they prefer their empty stomachs to your empty head,
Earth and heaven are silent before them: they are stronger than the dead.

"Call on the wheels, master, call on the wheels,
Steel is beneath your hand, stone beneath your heels,
Steel will never laugh out loud, hearing what we heard,
Stone will never break its heart, crazed with hope denied—
People of tact that mediate, slow change that heals—
Save the stinking grease, master, save it for the wheels.

"King Dives in the garden, we have nothing to give or keep—
(Even while the baby came alive, the rotten sticks were sold.)
The savage knows a cave and the peasants keep a plot,
Of all the things that humans have had—look! we have none.
Not a scrap of earth where ants could lay their eggs—
Only this poor lump of earth that walks about on legs—
Only this poor wandering home, only these two walking trees.
Only hands and hearts and stomachs—what do you have to do with these?
You have engines big and shiny, tall beyond our forefathers' sight,
Why would you make peace and deal with such fragile beings as humans?

"Call on the wheels, master, call on the wheels,
They are deaf to politicians, deaf to crude appeals;
Are our hands our own, master?—how the doctors question!
Are our legs our own, master? wheels can run without—
Prove the points are sensitive—they will get it.
All the wheels are loyal; see how still they stand!"

King Dives was walking in his garden in the sun,
He shook his hand at heaven, and he called for the wheels to run,
And his eyes were filled with hatred, his lips were curled,
And he called upon his father who is lord below the world,
Sitting in the Gate of Treason, in the gate of broken seals,
"Bend and bind them, bend and bind them, bend and bind them into wheels,
Then once more in all my garden there may swing and sound and sweep—
The noise of all the restless things that sing the soul to sleep."

Call on the wheels, master, call on the wheels.
Holidays grow tiring when you miss the meals,
Through the Gate of Treason, through the gate within,
Comes fear and greed for fame, comes deadly sin;
If a man grows weak, master, take him before he kneels.
Take him, break him, tear him, end him, roll him, crush him with the wheels.

Smile at us, pay us, pass us; but don’t completely forget.
For we are the people of England, who have never spoken yet.
There are many fat farmers who drink less cheerfully,
There are many free French peasants who are richer and sadder than we.
There are no people in the whole world so helpless or so wise.
There is hunger in our bellies, there is laughter in our eyes;
You laugh at us and love us, both our mugs and eyes are wet:
But you don’t really know us. Because we haven’t spoken yet.

The fine French kings came over with a flutter of flags and ladies.
We liked their smiles and battles, but we could never say their names.
The blood ran red at Bosworth and the high French lords went down;
There was nothing but a naked people under a naked crown.

And the eyes of the King’s Servants turned frantically every which way,
And the gold of the King’s Servants rose higher every day.
They burned the homes of the shaven men, that had been quaint and kind,
Until there was no bed in a monk’s house, nor food that anyone could find.
The inns of God, where no one paid, that were the support of the weak,
The King’s Servants devoured them all. And still we did not speak.

And the face of the King’s Servants grew greater than the King:
He fooled them, and they trapped him, standing around him in a ring.
The new noble lords surrounded him, who had consumed the abbey’s fruits.
And the men of the new religion, with their bibles in their boots.
We saw their shoulders move, to threaten or to discuss,
And some were pure and some were vile; but none paid attention to us.
We saw the King as they killed him, and his face was proud and pale;
And a few men talked of freedom, while England talked of ale.

A war that we didn’t understand came over the world and woke
Americans, Frenchmen, Irish; but we didn’t know what they spoke.
They talked about rights and nature and peace and the people’s reign:
And the squires, our masters, told us to fight; and never scorned us again.
Weak as we may be forever, no one could condemn us then;
Men called us serfs and drudges; men knew that we were men.
In foam and flame at Trafalgar, on Albuera plains,
We fought and died like lions, to keep ourselves in chains,
We lay in living ruins; firing and not fearing
The strange fierce faces of the Frenchmen who knew what they were fighting for,
And the man who seemed to be more than human we strained against and broke;
And we compromised our own rights with him. And still we never spoke.

Our patch of glory ended; we never heard guns again.
But the squire seemed struck in the saddle; he was foolish, as if in pain
He leaned on a staggering lawyer, he clutched a cringing Jew,
He was stricken; maybe, after all, he was stricken at Waterloo.
Or perhaps the shades of the shaven men, whose spoils are in his house,
Come back in shining shapes at last to ruin his last carouse:
We only know the last sad squires ride slowly towards the sea.
And a new people takes the land: and still it is not us.

They have given us into the hands of the new unhappy lords,
Lords without anger and honor, who dare not carry their swords.
They fight by shuffling papers; they have bright dead foreign eyes;
They look at our work and laughter as a tired man looks at flies.
And the burden of their loveless pity is worse than the ancient wrongs,
Their doors are shut in the evening; and they know no songs.

We hear men speaking for us of new laws strong and sweet,
Yet no one speaks like we do in the street.
It may be we will rise last, as the French did first,
Our anger coming after Russia’s wrath and our wrath be the worst.
It may be we are meant to mark with our chaos and our rest
God’s scorn for all men governing. It may be beer is best.
But we are the people of England; and we haven’t spoken yet.
Smile at us, pay us, pass us. But don’t completely forget.

So you’ve won the golden crowns, so you’ve gathered together
The trophies and the gems, the pearls from out of nowhere,
But I will beat the drum and wave the feather
For all the glory I've lost and the goodness I never experienced.

I saw the morning light fade on noble human faces,
In stories that are long gone, in the last night that's come to an end,
I glimpsed the tails of flying fights, a flash of burning joys,
And I laughed to think about what I had lost—the riches of the entire world.

Yeah, ruined in a royal game even before I was born;
Has there ever been a gambler wasting gold who lost as much as I have?
The purple moth that died an hour before I was born from
That amazing green sunset God will make three days after I die.

When all the lights are gone and done, when all the skies are shattered,
Above the ruins of the stars, my soul will remain in power,
With a mind filled with richness, with the irreversible sunsets,
And a closed heart satisfied with its destiny.

So you’ve won the golden crowns and seized the golden weather,
The kingdoms and the regions where everyone trades,
But I will beat the dancing drum and wave the bright feather,
For the light of seven heavens that I’ve lost feels like hell.

Oh, how lucky is the one who loves the sun
Who sees the heavens either raced or run,
The vibrant seas of sunset won,
And cheers to victory.

God created the sun to crown his head,
And when death’s arrow is finally shot,
At least it won't find him dead,
And walk past the lifeless body.

Oh, how unfortunate is the one who loves the sun;
Will the sun bend down for anyone?
Will the sun cry for broken hearts
Or troubled souls that pray?

Not less for us and everyone
Was that brilliant web of beauty spun;
Oh, how fortunate is the one who loves the sun
Even if the sun should kill.

Happy, who like Ulysses or that lord
Who took the fleece, coming back clever and complete,
With experience and the world's understanding gathered,
Can wait with his own family until the end of time.
When will I see, when will I see, only God knows!
The smoke from my small village; or walk past the door,
The old precious door of that unfortunate house
To me, that's a kingdom and so much more.
More powerful to me is the house my ancestors built
Than your brave leaders, O Halls of Rome!
More than immortal marble that doesn’t decay,
The thin, gloomy slates that cover my home;
More than your Tiber is my Loire to me,
Than Palatine my little Lyré there;
And more than all the winds of all the sea
The soft kindness of the Angevin air.

"Rev. Isaiah Bunter has disappeared into the heart __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__."
of the Solomon Islands, and there are worries that he might have
been hurt by the locals, as there has been a significant
"revival of traditional practices among the Polynesians."
A genuine paragraph from an actual paper; only the names have been changed.

It was Isaiah Bunter
Who sailed to the edge of the world,
And spread faith in a way
That he never meant to.

He provided, if not a gospel feast,
At least a ceremonial dinner;
And in a deeply troubling way
He was filled with passion.

And who are we (as Henson says)
Should we close the door?
And should not Evangelicals
Everyone rushes to spill blood?

And many a man will melt into another,
Becoming one, not separate,
When echoes across the startled earth
The Kikuyu Kiss.

When Man is the Turk, and the Atheist,
Essene, Erastian Whig,
And the Thug and the Druse and the Catholic,
And the crew of the Captain's boat.

The old earth keeps her watch the same.
Alone in a quiet emptiness, she stands,
Her orange flowers blaze in her embrace,
Her gold ring was in her hand.
The waves of the long, golden mornings
Break more and more at the edge of her large robe,
And time and again the bleak moon-horns appear.
But she doesn’t watch for them.

She keeps her watch throughout the ages,
But her heart doesn’t age,
For the sound of the groom’s songs,
And the story she was once told.

The nations tremble and the cities sway,
The empires fight and fall apart,
And she watches devastation and smoke and steel,
And knows it's not the end.
The beliefs may choke and the powers despair,
The powers are rising again, and the beliefs are being renewed,
She is just a maiden, waiting there,
For the love whose word is genuine.

She keeps track of time throughout the years,
But her heart stays youthful,
For the sound of the groom's songs,
And the story she was once told.

Through the cornfield’s shine and the cottage shade,
They wait patiently, both the young and the old,
Mother for child and man for woman.
For a love that was once shared.
The hair turns grey under thatch or slate,
The eyes dim behind window panes,
The earth’s people wait as the old earth waits,
And hope in the heart stays.

She keeps her watch across the ages,
But her heart never ages,
For the sound of the groom's songs,
And the story she was once told.

God’s gold ring on her hand is bound,
She brightens the gray hills with flowers,
Her fields are alive, her forests adorned,
While her heart's love still exists,
And we, from the fears that trouble and mar
Look up for a moment and stare for a bit.
At her face, colossal, amidst star on star,
Still looking out with a smile.

She watches over time through the ages,
But her heart doesn't age,
For the sound of the groom’s songs,
And the story she was once told.

When Adam left Paradise
He saw the sword and ran.
The terrifying form, the new invention,
The sharp edge of Paradise,
And realized what Danger is and Cost,
And he realized he was a man.

When Adam left Paradise,
He turned around and shouted
For a small flower from Paradise;
No flower came from Paradise;
The woods were dark in Paradise,
And no bird replied.

For only comfort or scorn,
For a joke or a nice reward,
Over the walls of Paradise,
The gates of Paradise without flames,
The silent closed doors of Paradise,
God cast down the flaming sword.

It burns the hand that wields it
It hits harder than just the head;
It coils like a snake and stings,
Yet he who holds it in his grasp
He is the most powerful of things,
A critic of the stars.

When I returned to Fleet Street,
Through a sunset corner at night,
And saw the old Green Dragon
With all the windows glowing,
And called out to the old Green Dragon
And the rooster I used to know,
Where all the good people were my friends
Recently;

I had spent a long time in meadows,
And the trees had a grip on me,
And in the quiet towns of the beech woods,
Where people were meant to be.
But old things still lingered; the laughter,
The long, weird night,
And all the truths they speak in hell,
And all the lies they tell.

For I came back to Fleet Street,
I didn't come here in peace;
A split pride was in my heart,
And half of my love was shame.
I came to fight in a fairy tale,
Whose ending no one will know—
To battle the old Green Dragon
Until the rooster crows!

Under the wide bright windows
I no longer serve men,
The groaning of the old great wheels
Thickened to a gagged roar;
All hidden things broke free;
And peeked out from their hideout,
Ugly and silent, like a spirit,
The street's secret.

They didn’t break the padlocks,
Or clear the wall.
The men in debt who drank back then
Still in debt today;
Chained to the wealthy by ruin,
Happy in captivity, just like back then.
When old, unbroken Pickwick walked
Among the shattered men.

Still he who dreams and wanders
Through his own magic vibe,
Knows that the street’s a prison,
Is aware that the gates exist:
Still he who scorns or struggles
Sees, frightening and far away.
All that they leave of rebels
Rot high on Temple Bar.

All that I loved and hated,
Everything I stayed away from and understood,
Clears in bright battle lightning,
Where they are, and I am, and you are,
Run high the barricade that breaks
The street barriers,
And shout to those who shrink within,
The Fleet's Prisoners.

To J.S.M.

EXTRACT FROM A ROMANCE THAT IS NOT READY YET
WRITTEN AND LIKELY NEVER WILL BE.

The wine they drink in Paradise
is made in Haute Lorraine;
God brought it up from the earth
to be a sign and signal rod
that those who drink the blood of God
will never thirst again.

The wine they celebrate in Paradise
is made in Ponterey,
the purple wine of Paradise,
but we've got better for the price;
It's wine they celebrate in Paradise,
but it's cider that they pray for.

The wine they seek in Paradise
is found in Plodder's End,
the apple wine of Hereford,
from Hafod Hill to Hereford,
where the woods stretched down to Hereford,
and there I had a friend.

The soft feet of the blessed walk
in the gentle western valleys,
the road the silent saints travel,
the road from Heaven to Hereford,
where the apple orchards of Hereford
stretch all the way to Wales.

The wind blew out from Bergen from dawn to day,
There was a wreck of trees and fallen towers a score of miles away,
And I drift like a pale leaf before its tide,
Kicked out of house and stable, stripped of flag and bride.
The heavens are low above my head, roaring like angel wars.
With rains that could extinguish the sun and clear the sky of stars,
Rains like the collapse of ruined seas from hidden worlds above,
The raging of the rains of God is loved only by the lonely.
Feast in my hall, O enemies, and eat and drink your fill,
You never loved the sun in heaven as I have loved the rain.

The chance of battle shifts—so can all battles change;
I stole my lady bride from them, and they took her back from me.
I took her from her red-roofed hall, I rode and saw arise
More beautiful than living flowers the hatred in her eyes.
She never loved me, never bent, never was less divine;
The sunset never loved me; the wind was never mine.
Was it all meaningless that she stood regal in distress?
Silence itself felt softer with the swish of her dress.
O you who drink from the cup of life, O you who wear the crown,
You never loved a woman's smile as I have loved her frown.

The wind blew out from Bergen from dawn to day,
They ride and rush with fifty spears to break and block my way,
I shall not die alone, but connected to all the powers.
As joyful as the ancient sun and fighting like the flowers.
How white their steel, how bright their eyes! I love each laughing rogue.
Cry high and welcome him to the banquet of the brave.
Yes, I will bless them as they bow and love them where they lie,
When on their skulls the sword I swing falls shattering from the sky.
The hour when death feels like light and blood is like a rose,—
You never loved your friends, my friends, as I shall love my foes.

Do you know what earth shall lose tonight, what rich, uncounted treasures,
What heavy gold of untold tales you bury with my bones?
My loves in deep dim meadows, my ships that sailed at ease,
Stirring the purple plumage of strange and secret seas.
To see this beautiful earth as it is to me alone was granted,
The strike that breaks my brow tonight shall shatter the dome of heaven.
The skies I saw, the trees I saw after no one else shall see.
Tonight I die the death of God; the stars shall die with me:
One sound shall break all the spears and silence the trumpet's breath:
You never laughed in your life as I shall laugh in death.

Heaven will forgive you, Bridge at dawn,
The clothes you wear—or don’t wear—
And Ladies' Leapfrog on the lawn
And dyes and drugs, and petits verres.
Your wicked actions will disappear ...
... But for the Good Things you do,
The Righteous Work, the Public Care,
You won’t be forgiven.

Because you couldn’t even yawn
When your Committees prepared
To have the teeth of the poor pulled,
Or strip the slums of Human Hair;
Because Dr. Otto Maehr
Spoke of "a segregated few"—
And you just smiled in your chair—
You won’t be forgiven.

Though your sins cried to—Father Vaughan,
You couldn’t spare these desperate people
Who steal, with nothing left to pawn;
You locked a man up like a bear
Forever in a jailer's care
Because his sins were more than two ...
... I know a house in Hoxton where
You won't be forgiven.

ENVOI

Princess, you deceived an innocent Mayor
To meet some people you knew ...
When the Last Trumpet sounds,
You won't be forgiven.

They talked about progress around,
About light and Mrs. Humphry Ward—
It’s not true that I frowned,
Or ran around the room and roared;
I might as well have just sat and snored—
I got up politely in the club
And said, "I feel a little bored;
Could someone take me to a pub?"

The smartest of the new world surrounded
Me; and it’s hard to admit
I didn’t find their views profound,
Or their conclusions well-supported;
The simple life isn't something I can afford,
Plus, I don’t like the food—
I’m waiting for mashed potatoes and sausage, "scored"—
Could someone take me to a pub?

I know where men can still be found,
Anger and loud agreement,
And virtues growing from the ground,
And the fellowship of beer and meals,
And songs, which are a sturdy bond.
And hope, which is a tough shrub,
And goodness, that is God's final word—
Could someone take me to a pub?

ENVOI

Prince, Bayard would have broken his sword
To see the kind of knights you name—Is
this really the last of them—Oh Lord!
Could someone take me to a pub?

I haven't read a bad page
Of "Sex-Hate" or "The Social Test,"
And now here come "Husks" and "Heritage"....
O Moses, give us all a break!
"Ethics of Empire"!... I object
I won’t even cut the strings,
I'll read "Jack Redskin on the Quest"
And fill my mind with better things.

Somebody wants a Wiser Age
(He also wants me to invest);
Somebody enjoys the Finnish Stage
Because the Jesters don’t joke;
And dusty is Dante's crest,
The bell of Rabelais silently swings;
And the winds blow in from the west
And fill my mind with better things.

Lord of our laughter and our anger.
Look on us with our sins heavy!
I, too, have walked my heritage,
Sick of the best, feeling weary.
Burn from my mind and from my heart
Laziness, and the cowardice that clings,
And rigidity and the soul's block:
And fill my mind with better things.

ENVOI

Prince, you are the host and I am the guest,
So I avoid quibbling....
But I should have that fizz held back
And fill my mind with better things.

The gallows in my garden, people say,
Is new, neat, and just the right height.
I tie the noose with a knowing touch,
Like someone knotting their tie for a party;
But just as all the neighbors—on the wall—
Are taking a deep breath to shout "Hurray!"
A strange thought has crossed my mind.... After all
I think I won’t hang myself today.

Tomorrow is when I get my pay—My
uncle's sword is hanging in the hall—
I see a little cloud all pink and gray—
Maybe the rector's mother won’t call—
I think I heard from Mr. Gall
That mushrooms can be cooked another way—
I’ve never read Juvenal’s works—
I think I won’t hang myself today.

The world will have another wash day;
The decadents fade away; the pedants tire;
And H.G. Wells has shown that kids play.
And Bernard Shaw discovered that they cry;
Rationalists are becoming rational—
And through thick woods, you find a stream wandering,
So hidden that the sky seems tiny—
I think I won’t hang myself today.

ENVOI

Prince, I can hear the trumpet of Germinal,
The carts trudging up the dreadful road;
Even today your royal head might fall—
I think I won’t hang myself today.

The sky is blue with summer and the sun,
The woods are brown like autumn with the tan,
It might as well be the Tropics and be done,
I might as well be born a copper Khan;
I make myself an oriental fan
Made of the totally unpaid bills
Brought by the ice-man, sleeping in his van
(A storm is coming on the Chiltern Hills).

I read the Young Philosophers for fun
—Fresh as our sorrow for the late Queen Anne—
The Dionysians whom a pint would stun,
The Pantheists who never heard of Pan.
—But through my hair electric needles ran,
And on my book a splash of water spills,
And on the edges of heaven the guns began
(A storm is coming on the Chiltern Hills).

O fields of England, cracked and dry and brown,
O soul of England, tired of words, and pale!—
The clouds grow dark;—the downpour has begun.
—It comes, it comes, as holy darkness can,
Black as with banners, ban and calling out;
A falling laughter fills the whole valley,
Deep as God's thunder and the thirst of man:
(A storm is coming on the Chiltern Hills).

ENVOI

Prince, Prince-Elective on the modern plan
Fulfilling so many People's Will,
You take the Chiltern Hundreds while you can—
A storm is coming on the Chiltern Hills.