Stunted and stupid and twisted, marred in the
mills of grief,
Can your factories fashion a Man of this thing—
a Man and a Chief?
Dumb is the heart of him now, at the time when
his heart should sing—
Wasters of body and brain, what race will the
future bring?
What of the nation's nerve whenas swift crises
come?
What of the brawn that should heave the guns on
the beck of the drum?
Thieves of body and soul, who can neither think
nor feel,
Swine-eyed priests of little false gods of gold and
steel,
Bow to your obscene altars, worship your loud
mills then!
Feed to Moloch and Baal the brawn and brains
of men—
But silent and watchful and hidden forever over
all
The masters brood of those Mills that "grind
exceeding small."
And it needs no occult art nor magic to foreshow
That a people who sow defeat they will reap the
thing they sow.
"SIC TRANSIT GLORIA MUNDI"
CONQUERORS leonine, lordly,
Princes and vaunting kings,
Ye are drunk with the sound of your braggart
trumps—
_But lo! ye are little things!
Earth … it is charnel with monarchs!
And the puffs of dust that start
Where your war steeds stamp with their ringing hoofs
Were each some warrior's heart._