And I would have all know that when all falls

In ruin, poetry calls out in joy,

Being the scattering hand, the bursting pod,

The victim’s joy among the holy flame,

God’s laughter at the shattering of the world.

And now that joy laughs out, and weeps and burns

On these bare steps.

YOUNGEST PUPIL.

O master, do not die!

OLDEST PUPIL.