The patient tide of whose heart
is the murmur of our sea
moves inutterably in the stark
crystal of eternity
and shifts the fallible iniquity
into a bad-eyed dream
for the posterity that shall be
different from all we've known or been.
The essense of our material pride
waxed wild in Hereward
after the arrow brushed the King's helmet aside
and stone of old churches was overturned.
The poet sang beauty in a London dawn
though love-hurt himself, and knowing corruption gnawed
the vital organs of a humorous nation.
I stand as it were on an onanous shore
seared by the sensible doing of little things
the return of the poor
the insidious niceness of commercial wrong
blank indifference to past or future.
Send us some inner outlaw
send us some dream of love
not little things through a magic door
nor Eros as brother to War
but a mental wood where men may find
a place of faith against the dark
sure enough to roar with the boughs in a high wind
and forget the thorny wastes and the sun burning
and when Spring comes with its tide of despair
and there are seeds impossibly to rear
let us speak of Alfred, broken in war,
or of a young princess for whom the block was near.