Their youth was fevered—passionate, quick to drain
The last few pleasures from the cup of life
Before they turn'd to suck the dregs of pain
And end their young-old lives in mortal strife.
They paid the debts of many a hundred year
Of foolishness and riches in alloy.
They went to death; nor did they shed a tear
For all they sacrificed of love and joy.
Their tears ran dry when they were in the womb,
For, entering life—they found it was their tomb.
1917.
To FRANCIS MEYNELL
SHEEP-SONG
From within our pens,
Stout built,
We watch the sorrows of the world.
Imperturbably
We see the blood
Drip and ooze on to the walls.
Without a sigh
We watch our lambs
Stuffed and fattened for the slaughter....
In our liquid eyes lie hidden
The mystery of empty spaces
All the secrets of the vacuum.
Yet we can be moved;
When the head-sheep bleats,
We bleat with him;
When he stampedes
—Heavy with foot-rot—
We gallop after him
Until
In our frenzy
We trip him up
—And a new sheep leads us.
We are the greatest sheep in the world;
There are no sheep like us.
We come of an imperial bleat;
Our voices,
Trembling with music,
Call to our lambs oversea.
With us they crash across continents.
We will not heed the herdsmen,
For they warned us,
"Do not stampede";
Yet we were forced to do so.
Never will we trust a herdsman again.
Then the black lamb asked,
Saying, "Why did we start this glorious Gadarene descent?"
And the herd bleated angrily,
"We went in with clean feet,
And we will come out with empty heads.
We gain nothing by it,
Therefore
It is a noble thing to do.
We are stampeding to end stampedes.
We are fighting for lambs
Who are never likely to be born.