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IX.

POET:

Shall I watch Infinity set aflame her pageantry of worlds

And light her candles in the halls of space,

And know mine ignorance,

Yet dare to beckon Love from heaven

To fat an obscene god with guts of gold?

Shall I, who look up to the stars

From a level no higher than the tortoise,

Nay, cannot soar so far as the dusky beetle,

Dare to fasten shackles on Love, the master of the world?

Shall I, in the morning, listen to the whistle of the lark.

Or in the evening hark unto the petty tinkle of a lover's

lute. While the clamors of a devouring monster Drown the birth-cries, and the iron clang of hammers Hushes the moans of mothers?

I will not sing of Love till women

Be the moulders of young gods,

Serenely choosing their mates.

I will not sing of Life till all are glad.

I will not sing of motherhood

While there are filthy dens where womanhood gluts on

despair And the air stinks with the curses of drunkards. I will not sing of manhood while Poverty Stands by the yawning jails, doors unto Hell.

I know what Nature is and her largesse.

I know that her beauty is infinite.

Her freedom perfect and her tenderness everlasting.

My throat yearns to sing a song of beauty.

For my soul keeps in its secret chamber

The madness of a wind-swept hill-top

Where, from under a shading laurel.

We watched the white clouds lure the winds, their lovers,

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