Poems By the Way Part 19

I tell you this for a wonder, that no man then shall be glad Of his fellow's fall and mishap to s.n.a.t.c.h at the work he had.

For that which the worker winneth shall then be his indeed, Nor shall half be reaped for nothing by him that sowed no seed.

O strange new wonderful justice!

But for whom shall we gather the gain?

For ourselves and for each of our fellows, and no hand shall labour in vain.

Then all Mine and all Thine shall be Ours, and no more shall any man crave For riches that serve for nothing but to fetter a friend for a slave.

And what wealth then shall be left us when none shall gather gold To buy his friend in the market, and pinch and pine the sold?

Nay, what save the lovely city, and the little house on the hill, And the wastes and the woodland beauty, and the happy fields we till;

And the homes of ancient stories, the tombs of the mighty dead; And the wise men seeking out marvels, and the poet's teeming head;

And the painter's hand of wonder; and the marvellous fiddle-bow, And the banded choirs of music: all those that do and know.

For all these shall be ours and all men's nor shall any lack a share Of the toil and the gain of living in the days when the world grows fair.

Ah! such are the days that shall be!

But what are the deeds of to-day,

In the days of the years we dwell in, that wear our lives away?

Why, then, and for what are we waiting?

There are three words to speak; WE WILL IT, and what is the foeman but the dream-strong wakened and weak?

O why and for what are we waiting?

while our brothers droop and die, And on every wind of the heavens a wasted life goes by.

How long shall they reproach us where crowd on crowd they dwell, Poor ghosts of the wicked city, the gold-crushed hungry h.e.l.l?

Through squalid life they laboured, in sordid grief they died, Those sons of a mighty mother, those props of England's pride.

They are gone; there is none can undo it, nor save our souls from the curse; But many a million cometh, and shall they be better or worse?

It is we must answer and hasten, and open wide the door For the rich man's hurrying terror, and the slow-foot hope of the poor.

Yea, the voiceless wrath of the wretched, and their unlearned discontent, We must give it voice and wisdom till the waiting-tide be spent.

Come, then, since all things call us, the living and the dead, And o'er the weltering tangle a glimmering light is shed.

Come, then, let us cast off fooling, and put by ease and rest, For the Cause alone is worthy till the good days bring the best.

Come, join in the only battle wherein no man can fail, Where whoso fadeth and dieth, yet his deed shall still prevail.

Ah! come, cast off all fooling, for this, at least, we know: That the Dawn and the Day is coming, and forth the Banners go.

EARTH THE HEALER, EARTH THE KEEPER.

So swift the hours are moving Unto the time un-proved: Farewell my love unloving, Farewell my love beloved!

What! are we not glad-hearted?

Is there no deed to do?

Is not all fear departed And Spring-tide blossomed new?

The sails swell out above us, The sea-ridge lifts the keel; For They have called who love us, Who bear the gifts that heal:

A crown for him that winneth, A bed for him that fails, A glory that beginneth In never-dying tales.

Yet now the pain is ended And the glad hand grips the sword, Look on thy life amended And deal out due award.

Think of the thankless morning, The gifts of noon unused; Think of the eve of scorning, The night of prayer refused.

And yet. The life before it, Dost thou remember aught, What terrors s.h.i.+vered o'er it Born from the h.e.l.l of thought?

And this that cometh after: How dost thou live, and dare To meet its empty laughter, To face its friendless care?

In fear didst thou desire, At peace dost thou regret, The wasting of the fire, The tangling of the net.

Love came and gat fair greeting; Love went; and left no shame.

Shall both the twilights meeting The summer sunlight blame?

What! cometh love and goeth Like the dark night's empty wind, Because thy folly soweth The harvest of the blind?

Hast thou slain love with sorrow?

Have thy tears quenched the sun?

Nay even yet to-morrow Shall many a deed be done.

This twilight sea thou sailest, Has it grown dim and black For that wherein thou failest, And the story of thy lack?

Peace then! for thine old grieving Was born of Earth the kind, And the sad tale thou art leaving Earth shall not leave behind.

Peace! for that joy abiding Whereon thou layest hold Earth keepeth for a tiding For the day when this is old.

Thy soul and life shall perish, And thy name as last night's wind; But Earth the deed shall cherish That thou to-day shalt find.

And all thy joy and sorrow So great but yesterday, So light a thing to-morrow, Shall never pa.s.s away.