Collected Poems Volume II Part 2

XIII

Doomed to be shovelled like dung to the midden, Trodden and kneaded as clay in the road, Father and little one, lover and friend, Out in the night they are marching, marching, Doomed to be shovelled like dung to the midden, Bodies that bowed beneath Christ's own load, Love that--marched to the self-same end.

XIV

What of the end?--O, not of your glory, Not of your wealth or your fame that will live Half as long as this pellet of dust!-- Out in the night there's an army marching, Nameless, noteless, empty of glory, Ready to suffer and die and forgive, Marching onward in simple trust,

XV

Wearing their poor little toy love-tokens Under the march of the terrible skies!

Is it a jest for a G.o.d to play?-- Whose is the jest of these millions marching, Wearing their poor little toy love-tokens, Waving their voicelessly grand good-byes, Secretly trying, sometimes, to pray.

XVI

Dare you dream their trust in Eternity Broken, O you to whom prayers are vain, You who dream that their G.o.d is dead?

Take your answer--these millions marching Out of Eternity, into Eternity, These that smiled "We shall meet again,"

Even as the life from their loved one fled.

XVII

This is the answer, not of the sages, Not of the loves that are ready to part, Ready to find their oblivion sweet!

Out in the night there's an army marching, Men that have toiled thro' the endless ages, Men of the pit and the desk and the mart, Men that remember, the men in the street,

XVIII

These that into the gloom of Eternity Stream thro' the dream of this lamp-starred town London, an army of clouds to-night!

These that of old came marching, marching, Out of the terrible gloom of Eternity, Bowing their heads at Rameses' frown, Streaming away thro' Babylon's light;

XIX

These that swept at the sound of the trumpet Out thro' the night like gonfaloned clouds, Exiled hosts when the world was Rome, Tossing their tattered old eagles, marching Down to sleep till the great last trumpet, London, Nineveh, rend your shrouds, Rally the legions and lead them home,

XX

Lead them home with their glorious faces Moving steadily, row on row Marching up from the end of wars, Out of the Valley of Shadows, marching, Terrible, beautiful, human faces, Common as dirt, but softer than snow, Coa.r.s.er than clay, but calm as the stars,

XXI

Marching out of the endless ages, Marching out of the dawn of time, Endless columns of unknown men, Endless ranks of the stars o'er-arching Endless ranks of an army marching Numberless out of the numberless ages, Men out of every race and clime, Marching steadily, now as then.

THE SKY-LARK CAGED

I

Beat, little breast, against the wires.

Strive, little wings and misted eyes Which one wild gleam of memory fires Beseeching still the unfettered skies, Whither at dewy dawn you sprang Quivering with joy from this dark earth and sang.

II

And still you sing--your narrow cage Shall set at least your music free!

Its rapturous wings in glorious rage Mount and are lost in liberty, While those who caged you creep on earth Blind prisoners from the hour that gave them birth.

III

Sing! The great City surges round.

Blinded with light, thou canst not know.

Dream! 'Tis the fir-woods' windy sound Rolling a psalm of praise below.

Sing, o'er the bitter dust and shame, And touch us with thine own transcendent flame.

IV

Sing, o'er the City dust and slime; Sing, o'er the squalor and the gold, The greed that darkens earth with crime, The spirits that are bought and sold.

O, shower the healing notes like rain, And lift us to the height of grief again.

V

Sing! The same music swells your breast, And the wild notes are still as sweet As when above the fragrant nest And the wide billowing fields of wheat You soared and sang the livelong day, And in the light of heaven dissolved away.

VI

The light of heaven! Is it not here?

One rapture, one ecstatic joy, One pa.s.sion, one sublime despair, One grief which nothing can destroy, You--though your dying eyes are wet Remember, 'tis our blunted hearts forget.

VII

Beat, little breast, still beat, still beat, Strive, misted eyes and tremulous wings; Swell, little throat, your _Sweet! Sweet! Sweet!_ Thro' which such deathless memory rings: Better to break your heart and die, Than, like your gaolers, to forget your sky.

THE LOVERS' FLIGHT