Archives: Poems

1
After the burial-parties leave
  And the baffled kites have fled;
The wise hyænas come out at eve
  To take account of our dead. 
2
How he died and why he died
  Troubles them not a whit.
They snout the bushes and stones aside
  And dig till they come to it. 
3
They are only resolute they shall eat
  That they and their mates may thrive,
And they know that the dead are safer meat
   Than the weakest thing alive. 
4
(For a goat may butt, and a worm may sting,
  And a child will sometimes stand;
But a poor dead soldier of the King
   Can never lift a hand.) 
5
They whoop and halloo and scatter the dirt
  Until their tushes white
Take good hold in the army shirt,
  And tug the corpse to light, 
6
And the pitiful face is shewn again
  For an instant ere they close;
But it is not discovered to living men—
  Only to God and to those 
7
Who, being soulless, are free from shame,
  Whatever meat they may find.
Nor do they defile the dead man’s name—
  That is reserved for his kind.

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                     (A Song of the Dominions) 

’Twixt my house and thy house the pathway is broad,
In thy house or my house is half the world’s hoard;
By my house and thy house hangs all the world’s fate,
On thy house and my house lies half the world’s hate. 

For my house and thy house no help shall we find
Save thy house and my house—kin cleaving to kind;
If my house be taken, thine tumbleth anon.
If thy house be forfeit, mine followeth soon. 

’Twixt my house and thy house what talk can there be
Of headship or lordship, or service or fee?
Since my house to thy house no greater can send
Than thy house to my house—friend comforting friend;
And thy house to my house no meaner can bring
Than my house to thy house—King counselling King.

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 Sooner or late—in earnest or in jest—
 (But the stakes are no jest) Ithuriel’s Hour
 Will spring on us, for the first time, the test
 Of our sole unbacked competence and power
 Up to the limit of our years and dower
 Of judgment—or beyond. But here we have
 Prepared long since our garland or our grave.
 For, at that hour, the sum of all our past,
 Act, habit, thought, and passion, shall be cast
 In one addition, be it more or less,
 And as that reading runs so shall we do;
 Meeting, astounded, victory at the last,
 Or, first and last, our own unworthiness.
 And none can change us though they die to save!

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"For here lay the excellent 
wisdom of him that built 
Mansoul, that the walls could
never be broken down nor hurt 
by the most mighty adverse 
potentate unless the townsmen 
gave consent thereto."   
(BUNYAN'S Holy War.)


1 
A tinker out of Bedford,
  A vagrant oft in quod,
A private under Fairfax,
  A minister of God-
Two hundred years and thirty
  Ere Armageddon came
His single hand portrayed it,
  And Bunyan was his name!
2
He mapped for those who follow,
  The world in which we are–
"This famous town of Mansoul"
    That takes the Holy War.
Her true and traitor people,
  The Gates along her wall,
From Eye Gate unto Feel Gate,
  John Bunyan showed them all.
3
All enemy divisions,
  Recruits of every class,
And highly-screened positions
  For flame or poison-gas;
The craft that we call modern,
  The crimes that we call new,
John Bunyan had 'em typed and filed
  In Sixteen Eighty-two.
4
Likewise the Lords of Looseness
  That hamper faith and works,
The Perseverance-Doubters,
  And Present-Comfort shirks,
With brittle intellectuals
  Who crack beneath a strain–
John Bunyan met that helpful set
  In Charles the Second's reign.
5
Emmanuel's vanguard dying
  For right and not for rights,
My Lord Apollyon lying
  To the State-kept Stockholmites,
The Pope, the swithering Neutrals
  The Kaiser and his Gott–
Their roles, their goals, their naked souls–
  He knew and drew the lot.
6
Now he hath left his quarters,
   In Bunhill Fields to lie,
The wisdom that he taught us
  Is proven prophecy–
One watchword through our Armies,
  One answer from our Lands:– 
"No dealings with Diabolus
  As long as Mansoul stands!"
7
A pedlar from a hovel,
  The lowest of the low–
The Father of the Novel,
  Salvation's first Defoe–
Eight blinded generations
  Ere Armageddon came,
He showed us how to meet it,
  And Bunyan was his name!

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Our Fathers in a wondrous age,
  Ere yet the Earth was small,
 Ensured to us an heritage,
  And doubted not at all
 That we, the children of their heart,
  Which then did beat so high,
 In later time should play like part
  For our posterity. 

A thousand years they steadfast built,
  To ’vantage us and ours,
 The Walls that were a world’s despair,
   The sea-constraining Towers:
 Yet in their midmost pride they knew,
    And unto Kings made known,
 Not all from these their strength they drew,
  Their faith from brass or stone. 

Youth’s passion, manhood’s fierce intent,
  With age’s judgment wise,
 They spent, and counted not they spent,
  At daily sacrifice.
 Not lambs alone nor purchased doves
    Or tithe of trader’s gold—
Their lives most dear, their dearer loves,
  They offered up of old. 

Refraining e’en from lawful things,
  They bowed the neck to bear
 The unadorned yoke that brings
    Stark toil and sternest care.
 Wherefore through them is Freedom sure;
   Wherefore through them we stand,
 From all but sloth and pride secure,
    In a delightsome land. 

Then, fretful, murmur not they gave
   So great a charge to keep,
 Nor dream that awestruck Time shall save
   Their labour while we sleep.
 Dear-bought and clear, a thousand year,
  Our fathers’ title runs.
 Make we likewise their sacrifice,
   Defrauding not our sons.

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1 
    We knew thee of old,
    Oh divinely restored,
    By the light of thine eyes
    And the light of thy Sword.
2 
    From the graves of our slain
    Shall thy valour prevail
    As we greet thee again—
    Hail, Liberty! Hail!
3 
    Long time didst thou dwell
    Mid the peoples that mourn,
    Awaiting some voice
    That should bid thee return.
4 
    Ah, slow broke that day
    And no man dared call,
    For the shadow of tyranny
    Lay over all:
5 
    And we saw thee sad-eyed,
    The tears on thy cheeks
    While thy raiment was dyed
    In the blood of the Greeks.
6 
    Yet, behold now thy sons
    With impetuous breath
    Go forth to the fight
    Seeking Freedom or Death.
7 
    From the graves of our slain
    Shall thy valour prevail
    As we greet thee again–
    Hail, Liberty! Hail! 

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1 
As I pass through my incarnations in every age and race,
I make my proper prostrations to the Gods of the Market Place.
Peering through reverent fingers I watch them flourish and fall,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings, I notice, outlast them all. 
2
We were living in trees when they met us. They showed us each in turn
That Water would certainly wet us, as Fire would certainly burn:
But we found them lacking in Uplift, Vision and Breadth of Mind,
So we left them to teach the Gorillas while we followed the March of Mankind. 
3
We moved as the Spirit listed. They never altered their pace,
Being neither cloud nor wind-borne like the Gods of the Market Place,
But they always caught up with our progress, and presently word would come
That a tribe had been wiped off its icefield, or the lights had gone out in Rome. 
4
With the Hopes that our World is built on they were utterly out of touch,
They denied that the Moon was Stilton; they denied she was even Dutch;
They denied that Wishes were Horses; they denied that a Pig had Wings;
So we worshipped the Gods of the Market Who promised these beautiful things. 
5
When the Cambrian measures were forming, They promised perpetual peace.
They swore, if we gave them our weapons, that the wars of the tribes would cease.
But when we disarmed They sold us and delivered us bound to our foe,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "Stick to the Devil you know."  
6
On the first Feminian Sandstones we were promised the Fuller Life
(Which started by loving our neighbour and ended by loving his wife)
Till our women had no more children and the men lost reason and faith,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "The Wages of Sin is Death."  
7
In the Carboniferous Epoch we were promised abundance for all, 
By robbing selected Peter to pay for collective Paul; 
But, though we had plenty of money, there was nothing our money could buy, 
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "If you don't work you die."  
8
Then the Gods of the Market tumbled, and their smooth-tongued wizards withdrew,
And the hearts of the meanest were humbled and began to believe it was true
That All is not Gold that Glitters, and Two and Two make Four–
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings limped up to explain it once more. 
9
As it will be in the future, it was at the birth of Man
There are only four things certain since Social Progress began. 
That the Dog returns to his Vomit and the Sow returns to her Mire, 
And the burnt Fool's bandaged finger goes wabbling back to the Fire; 
10
And that after this is accomplished, and the brave new world begins
When all men are paid for existing and no man must pay for his sins, 
As surely as Water will wet us, as surely as Fire will burn, 
The Gods of the Copybook Headings with terror and slaughter return!

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1 
 Our England is a garden that is full of stately views,
 Of borders, beds and shrubberies and lawns and avenues,
 With statues on the terraces and peacocks strutting by;
 But the Glory of the Garden lies in more than meets the eye. 
2 
 For where the old thick laurels grow, along the thin red wall,
 You’ll find the tool- and potting-sheds which are the heart of all,
 The cold-frames and the hot-houses, the dungpits and the tanks,
 The rollers, carts and drain-pipes, with the barrows and the planks. 
3 
 And there you’ll see the gardeners, the men and ’Prentice boys
 Told off to do as they are bid and do it without noise;
 For, except when seeds are planted and we shout to scare the birds,
 The Glory of the Garden it abideth not in words. 
4 
 And some can pot begonias and some can bud a rose,
 And some are hardly fit to trust with anything that grows;
 But they can roll and trim the lawns and sift the sand and loam,
 For the Glory of the Garden occupieth all who come. 
5 
 Our England is a garden, and such gardens are not made
 By singing:—“Oh, how beautiful!” and sitting in the shade,
 While better men than we go out and start their working lives
 At grubbing weeds from gravel-paths with broken dinner-knives. 
6 
 There’s not a pair of legs so thin, there’s not a head so thick,
 There’s not a hand so weak and white, nor yet a heart so sick,
 But it can find some needful job that’s crying to be done,
 For the Glory of the Garden glorifieth every one. 
7 
 Then seek your job with thankfulness and work till further orders,
 If it’s only netting strawberries or killing slugs on borders;
 And when your back stops aching and your hands begin to harden,
 You will find yourself a partner in the Glory of the Garden. 
8 
 Oh, Adam was a gardener, and God who made him sees
 That half a proper gardener’s work is done upon his knees,
 So when your work is finished, you can wash your hands and pray
 For the Glory of the Garden that it may not pass away!
 And the Glory of the Garden it shall never pass away!

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