The Five Nations

Creation's cry goes up on high
From age to cheated age:

"Send us the men who do the work
For which they draw the wage."

Good luck to those that see the end,

Good-bye to those that drown—

For each his chance as chance shall send—

And God for all! Shut down!

That winged men the Fates may breed

So soon as Fate hath wings.

These shall possess

Our littleness,

And in the imperial task (as worthy) lay

Up our lives' all to piece one giant day.

Many shall hear
The all-pregnant sphere,
Bow to the birth and sweat, but—speech denied—
Sit dumb or—dealt in part—fall weak and wide.

The Shade that, shaping first of all,

Prepares an empty room.

Then doth It pass

Like breath from glass,

But, on the extorted vision bowed intent,

No man considers why It came or went.

Yet who will note,

Till fields afloat,

And washen carcass and the returning well,

Trumpet what these poor heralds strove to tell?

So 'ath it come to me—not pride,

Nor yet conceit, but on the 'ole

(If such a term may be applied),

The makin's of a bloomin' soul.

But now, discharged, I fall away

To do with little things again....

Try—try—try—try—to think o' something different—

Oh—my—God—keep—me from goin' lunatic!

Don't—don't—don't—don't—look at what's in front of you

(Boots—boots—boots—boots, movin' up an' down again);

Men—men—men—men—men go mad with watchin' 'em,

An' there's no discharge in the war.

There was no worth in the fashion—there was no wit in the plan—
Hither and thither, aimless, the ruined footings ran—
Masonry, brute, mishandled, but carven on every stone:

"After me cometh a Builder. Tell him, I too have known."