Let us be men that dream, Not cowards, dabblers, waiters For dead Time to reawaken and grant balm For ills unnamed. Great God, if we be damn’d to be not men but only dreams, Then let us be such dreams the world shall tremble at And know we be its rulers though but dreams! Then let us be such shadows as the world shall tremble at And know we be its masters though but shadow! High God, if men are grown but pale sick phantoms That must live only in these mists and tempered lights And tremble for dim hours that knock o’er loud Or tread too violent in passing them; Great God, if these thy sons are grown such thin ephemera, I bid thee grapple chaos and beget Some new titanic spawn to pile the hills and stir This earth again. AND THUS IN NINEVEH “Aye! I am a poet and upon my tomb Shall maidens scatter rose leaves And men myrtles, ere the night Slays day with her dark sword. “Lo! this thing is not mine Nor thine to hinder, For the custom is full old, And here in Nineveh have I beheld Many a singer pass and take his place In those dim halls where no man troubleth His sleep or song. And many a one hath sung his songs More craftily, more subtle-souled than I; And many a one now doth surpass My wave-worn beauty with his wind of flowers, Yet am I poet, and upon my tomb Shall all men scatter rose leaves ere the night Slay light with her blue sword. “It is not, Raana, that my song rings highest Or more sweet in tone than any, but that I Am here a Poet, that doth drink of life As lesser men drink wine.” THE WHITE STAG I ha’ seen them mid the clouds on the heather. Lo! they pause not for love nor for sorrow, Yet their eyes are as the eyes of a maid to her lover, When the white hart breaks his cover And the white wind breaks the morn. “_’Tis the white stag, Fame, we’re a-hunting,_ _Bid the world’s hounds come to horn!_” PICCADILLY Beautiful, tragical faces, Ye that were whole, and are so sunken; And, O ye vile, ye that might have been loved, That are so sodden and drunken, Who hath forgotten you? O wistful, fragile faces, few out of many! The gross, the coarse, the brazen, God knows I cannot pity them, perhaps, as I should do, But, oh, ye delicate, wistful faces, Who hath forgotten you? EXULTATIONS _I am an eternal spirit and the things I make are but ephemera,_ _yet I endure:_ _Yea, and the little earth crumbles beneath our feet_ _and we endure._ TO CARLOS TRACY CHESTER NIGHT LITANY O Dieu, purifiez nos cœurs! Purifiez nos cœurs!