I shook the trees of knowledge. Ah! the fruit Was fair upon the bleakness of the soil. I filled a hundred vessels with my spoil, And then I rested from the grand pursuit. L Alas! I took me servants: I was proud Of prose and of the neat, the cunning rhyme, But all their inclination was the crime Of scattering my treasure to the crowd. LI And yet--and yet this very seed I throw May rise aloft, a brother of the bird, Uncaring if his melodies are heard-- Or shall I not hear anything below? LII The glazier out of sounding Erzerûm, Frequented us and softly would conspire Upon our broken glass with blue-red fire, As one might lift a pale thing from the tomb. LIII He was the glazier out of Erzerûm, Whose wizardry would make the children cry-- There will be no such wizardry when I Am broken by the chariot-wheels of Doom. LIV The chariot-wheels of Doom! Now, hear them roll Across the desert and the noisy mart, Across the silent places of your heart-- Smile on the driver you will not cajole. LV I never look upon the placid plain But I must think of those who lived before And gave their quantities of sweat and gore, And went and will not travel back again. LVI Aye! verily, the fields of blandishment Where shepherds meditate among their cattle, Those are the direst of the fields of battle, For in the victor's train there is no tent. LVII Where are the doctors who were nobly fired And loved their toil because we ventured not, Who spent their lives in searching for the spot To which the generations have retired? LVIII "Great is your soul,"--these are the words they preach,-- "It passes from your framework to the frame Of others, and upon this road of shame Turns purer and more pure."--Oh, let them teach! LIX I look on men as I would look on trees, That may be writing in the purple dome Romantic lines of black, and are at home Where lie the little garden hostelries. LX Live well! Be wary of this life, I say; Do not o'erload yourself with righteousness. Behold! the sword we polish in excess, We gradually polish it away. LXI God who created metal is the same Who will devour it. As the warriors ride With iron horses and with iron pride-- Come, let us laugh into the merry flame. LXII But for the grandest flame our God prepares The breast of man, which is the grandest urn; Yet is that flame so powerless to burn Those butterflies, the swarm of little cares. LXIII And if you find a solitary sage Who teaches what is truth--ah, then you find The lord of men, the guardian of the wind, The victor of all armies and of age. LXIV See that procession passing down the street, The black and white procession of the days-- Far better dance along and bawl your praise Than if you follow with unwilling feet. LXV