Beautiful sorrowing child, Hugging your broken bow, Your eyes grow suddenly wild, Anguish is twisting your face... So changed from the Cupid's we know, The Cupid of dimples and grace. Cupid is down on his knees, Down in the midst of the crosses; His glorious, childish head Is bowed on his lovely arms... But the young of the world are dead And heedless of Cupid's charms. Oh, look at him, look at him now, The delicate shoulders shake. Hugging his broken bow Cupid is weeping now. Cupid is weeping as though His wonderful heart would break. ON HEARING THAT THE NAMES CARVED UPON AN OLD SCHOOL TABLE ARE TO BE REMOVED Gaze long upon this length of lifeless deal, Carved with rude cipher or with ill-cut name. Here youthful hands have wrought to set their seal Of immortality. No idle fame For those too-soon-forgotten names they sought, Only that others, seeing them, might say, These too were young and here have something brought Of youth's high heart, ere going each his way. These names, that thus have sung the joyous song Of youth's endeavour, now must fade and die 'Neath the cold malice that doth e'er belong To small minds wielding blind authority. So youth by age is ever vanquishèd And beauty smirched and soiled when youth is dead. THE ENVIOUS POETS You say we are happy, being poets, In our poor songs and tawdry tales. I tell you it is not true. There are those we envy above the gods, And they are the painters and carvers. With bright colour and cunning line They have the power to conjure up before them Great visions of all the loveliness they have known. A tree, the sea at night, A friend, The dear face of their belovèd, All these they can make live before them In colour, in marble. But what satisfaction do you think there is In a black printed word? I tell you we envy the painters and carvers. _J. B. S. HALDANE_ (_NEW COLLEGE_) COMPLAINT OF THE BLASPHEMOUS BOMBERS AT BEIT AIESSA It was not our hand or our fathers' hand, Nor mortal malice and the hate of men, That drew us to this far disastrous land Where the old primal night comes on again. Thy hand, O God of battles, and Thy voice Drew friend and foe into one net of hell, Wherefore Thine angels glory and rejoice, Thine enemies shall perish. It is well. We who had hoped in vain that for a season We might hold back Thy darkness from mankind, We who had trusted and obeyed our reason, We now are helpless and amazed and blind. Thou hast grudged the rich his little hours of pleasure, The little things of life that he held dear, The worker his fireside and evening leisure: Thou hast Thy will. One doom has drawn us here.