And every year for many centuries, On Christmas eve for many centuries, In churches and cathedrals Christians sing Their gladness of the coming of the Lord. The organ's thunder glorifies the Lord, The priests and ministers exalt the Lord, The infant Lord the virgin Mary bore; On Christmas eve it was in Bethlehem: And whilst they fete the babe of Bethlehem, Ten thousand babes on earth die painful deaths And millions live to live lives worse than death And still the massacre of innocents Goes on relentlessly. Poor innocents! LINES TO THE WOOLWORTH BUILDING Imposing pile of pale and polished stone, Cathedral-like in thy solemnity, Thy rectilinear grandeur awes my soul, And makes me shudder! Monstrous sacrilege, O when before Has thing so big been made for end so small? Unholy Temple of the priests of lucre, How most appropriate thy pallor is, So like in color to the tint of bones-- Thy slender, upright lines so much like bones-- So much like children's bones. How like unto the pyramids thou art; The tyrants' tombs, built by a million slaves. And like the pyramids, ere long Thou'lt be the relic of an age gone by. THE ARTISTS They have been born to model and to mould The shapeless clay into expressive form Even as gods! to seize the fleeting shades, The subtle hues of things that pass or stay And make them live and glow intensely. They have been born to tell their wondrous dreams In rhythmic stanzas full of strength and grace, To plunge into the very depths of things, To seek the precious essence that is fit For distillation to symphonic strain. Require them not to leave their sacred sphere, To mix with common vendors in the mart, To traffic their creations and to throw The priceless pearls of genius to the swine For but a bowl of vinegar and gall. O bring to them the little bread and milk Which they must have to live, and if you can Rejoice to give them honey. Be to them What ravens were unto a prophet once. Does not the beauty they create or dream Atone for all our ugly deeds or thoughts, Even as the saints who pray for those that sin Sustain the equilibrium that must be In order that the world may not be doomed? Eternal malediction fall on those Who mock or crucify these chosen ones And let them be thrice blessed who help to clear Life's rugged road of thorns for those who pass And passing, leave this world more beautiful. CAIN REFORMED Am I my brother's keeper? Yes, indeed, I keep him, aye, I keep him hard at work. I also keep the fruit of all his work And of his children's work I keep the fruit.