I will not take the great road that goes so proud and high, Like the march of Roman legions that made it long ago; But I will choose another way, a little road I know. There no poor tramp goes limping, nor rich poor men drive by, Nor ever crowding cattle, or sheep in dusty throng Before their beating drovers drift cruelly along: But only birds and free things, and ever in my ear Sound of the leaves and little tongues of water talking near. The great roads march on boldly, with scarce a curve or bend, From some huge smoky Nothing, to Nothing at their end; They march like Cæsar’s legions, and none may them withstand, But whence, or whither going, they do not understand, But oh, the little twisty road, The sweet and lover’s-kiss-ty road, The secret winding misty road, That leads to Fairyland! SONNET Christ God, Who died for us, now turn Thy face! Behold not what men do, lest once again Thou should’st be crucified, and die of pain. Look not, O Lord, but only of Thy grace Do Thou let fall on this accursed place, Where the poor starve and labour in disdain Of blinded Greed and all its vulgar train, A single thread of heaven that we may trace Some way to Right! And since “great men” stand by, Heedless of women and men that hunger, Lord, Give Thou to common men the vision splendid. Take (and if need be break) them, like a sword; Take them, and break them till their lives be ended; Here are a thousand christs ready to die! ENGLAND IN MEMORY (SONNET) Sweet Motherland, what have I done for thee, What suffered, what of lasting beauty made? I who ungratefully and undismayed Drank from thy breast the milk which nourished me In childhood, which until my death must be The life within my veins. Lo, from that shade Wherein they rest, thy dead and mine, arrayed In honour’s robes, come clear and plaintively Voices for ever to my listening ear Which cry, “Not yet is finished England’s fight! Still, still must poets strive and martyrs bleed To overthrow the enemies of Light, Armies of Dullness, Cruelty, Lust, and Greed!” Yet what have I done for thee, England dear? THE DEAD You never crept into the night That lurks for all mankind! Joyous you lived and loved, and leapt Into that gaping dark, where stept Our Fathers all, to find Old honour--jest of fools, yet still the soul of all delight. THE SLEEPERS A battered roof where stars went tripping With silver feet, A broken roof whence rain came dripping, Yet rest was sweet. A dug-out where the rats ran squeaking Under the ground, And out in front the poor dead reeking! Yet sleep was sound. No longer house or dug-out keeping, Within a cell Of brown and bloody earth they’re sleeping; Oh they sleep well.