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 The Man Forbid

(Scotch poet and dramatist, 1857-1909; after struggling for many years in London against poverty and ill-health, committed suicide, leaving some of the most striking and original poetry of the present age)

This Beauty, this Divinity, this Thought, This hallowed bower and harvest of delight Whose roots ethereal seemed to clutch the stars, Whose amaranths perfumed eternity, Is fixed in earthly soil enriched with bones Of used-up workers; fattened with the blood Of prostitutes, the prime manure; and dressed With brains of madmen and the broken hearts Of children. Understand it, you at least Who toil all day and writhe and groan all night With roots of luxury, a cancer struck In every muscle: out of you it is Cathedrals rise and Heaven blossoms fair; You are the hidden putrefying source Of beauty and delight, of leisured hours, Of passionate loves and high imaginings; You are the dung that keeps the roses sweet. I say, uproot it; plough the land; and let A summer-fallow sweeten all the World.