Again we make God in the image of Man
—Imagine God has made us in His image—
Reigns Law-and-Order for another span
To crush the weak in mad ferocious rage.
The wise, poor tight-rope dancers, walk again
The thin-drawn wire of art and thought, out-thrust
A hand to catch the comet's golden rain,
Whose blossom fades within their arms to dust.
Can man be falling once more through the black
Æons of hunger, ignorance and shame?
—But Mrs. Freudenthal pursues her track,
Intent upon it, means to win the game.
Houses rush past her—but she does not see,
Her eyes are glazed, until with clarity
She notes the War-horses drawn up for tea
Outside the glittering home of Charity.
Upstairs, bedecked with plumes, their minds they rest
On music and on muffins—all for sake
Of Charity; the music gives a zest
To whispered conversation—if awake,
Yet silent, the unwelcome harmony
May cause the facial scaffolding to fall;
They lower safety-curtains o'er each eye,
And move uneasily within each stall,
For music has a strange, unwelcome power
Of smearing sentiment about the mouth
Like children, after eating jam, they glower
In heavy, stupefaction—cross, uncouth.
The car arrives, the open door,
Expels a scorching flood of light—
The noise outside dies down—the floor
Is slippery and very bright.
INTRODUCING
It takes a camel thirty days
To cross the sinister sand of Lop
Whose Bedouin chants Allah's praise
Without cessation, dare not stop.