PROCULA. There is a just man's blood upon the sand. Mind how you tread. _They go in. The bronze doors are closed. The _CROWD_ remains for an instant watching the doors._ A VOICE. Herod the Fox makes friends with Pilate. Why? A VOICE. He needs a Roman loan. A VOICE. Look at the sky, The Paschal moon has risen. A VOICE. God is great. Why did I linger here? I shall be late. [_Going._] A VOICE. Good night and blessing. A VOICE [_going_]. Pilate's color changed When we cheered Herod. A VOICE. They have been estranged A long while now; but now they will be friends. [_Going._] A VOICE. What joy it is when Preparation ends. Now to our Feast. Do you go down the stair? A VOICE. Yes, past the pools; will you come with me there? A VOICE. I love to walk by moonlight; let us go. [_They go._] A VOICE [_singing_]. Friends, out of Egypt, long ago, Our wandering fathers came, Treading the paths that God did show By pointing cloud and flame. By land and sea His darkness and His light Led us into His peace.... [_The voice dies away._] A VOICE [_off_]. Good-night. _Only _THE MADMAN_ remains. He takes lilies from a box and begins to tie them in bunches._ MADMAN. Only a penny, a penny, Lilies brighter than any, Lilies whiter than snow. [_He feels that he is alone._] Beautiful lilies grow Wherever the truth so sweet Has trodden with bloody feet, Has stood with a bloody brow. Friend, it is over now, The passion, the sweat, the pains, Only the truth remains. [_He lays lilies down._] * * * * * * I cannot see what others see; Wisdom alone is kind to me, Wisdom that comes from Agony. * * * * * * Wisdom that lives in the pure skies, The untouched star, the spirit's eyes; O Beauty, touch me, make me wise. CURTAIN SONNETS NOTE Some few of these sonnets appeared serially in the _Atlantic Monthly, Scribner's Magazine, Harper's Monthly,_ and (perhaps) in one or two other papers. I thank the Editors of these papers for permission to reprint them here. JOHN MASEFIELD. LONDON, 16th Dec. 1915. Long long ago, when all the glittering earth Was heaven itself, when drunkards in the street Were like mazed kings shaking at giving birth To acts of war that sickle men like wheat, When the white clover opened Paradise And God lived in a cottage up the brook, Beauty, you lifted up my sleeping eyes And filled my heart with longing with a look; And all the day I searched but could not find The beautiful dark-eyed who touched me there, Delight in her made trouble in my mind, She was within all Nature, everywhere, The breath I breathed, the brook, the flower, the grass, Were her, her word, her beauty, all she was.