EXIT GOD
Of old our father’s God was real,
Something they almost saw,
Which kept them to a stern ideal
And scourged them into awe.
They walked the narrow path of right
Most vigilantly well,
Because they feared eternal night
And boiling depths of Hell.
Now Hell has wholly boiled away
And God become a shade.
There is no place for him to stay
In all the world He made.
The followers of William James
Still let the Lord exist,
And call Him by imposing names,
A venerable list.
But nerve and muscle only count,
Gray matter of the brain,
And an astonishing amount
Of inconvenient pain.
I sometimes wish that God were back
In this dark world and wide;
For though some virtues He might lack,
He had his pleasant side.
GAMALIEL BRADFORD
ROUSSEAU
That odd, fantastic ass, Rousseau,
Declared himself unique.
How men persist in doing so,
Puzzles me more than Greek.
The sins that tarnish whore and thief
Beset me every day.
My most ethereal belief
Inhabits common clay.
GAMALIEL BRADFORD
JOHN MASEFIELD
I
MASEFIELD (HIMSELF)
God said, and frowned, as He looked on Shropshire clay:
“Alone, ’twont do; composite, would I make
This man-child rare; ’twere well, methinks, to take
A handful from the Stratford tomb, and weigh
A few of Shelley’s ashes; Bunyan may
Contribute, too, and, for my sweet Son’s sake,
I’ll visit Avalon; then, let me slake
The whole with Wyclif-water from the Bay.
A sailor, he! Too godly, though, I fear;
Offset it with tobacco! Next, I’ll find
Hedge-roses, star-dust, and a vagrant’s mind;
His mother’s heart now let me breathe upon;
When west winds blow, I’ll whisper in her ear:
“Apocalypse awaits him; call him John!”