Spices and bales of plunder Argosied over the sea? Tapestry woven of wonder, And myrrh from Araby? None of your dream-stuffs, Fellow, Looter of Samarcand! Gold is heavy and yellow, And value is weighed in the hand! VI And yet, when the years had humbled The Kings in the Realm of the Boy, Song-built bastions crumbled, Ash-heaps smothering Troy; Thirsting for shattered flagons, Quaffing a brackish cup, With all of his chariots, wagons -- He never could quite grow up. The debt to the ogre, To-morrow, He never could comprehend: Why should the borrowers borrow? Why should the lenders lend? Never an oak tree borrowed, But took for its needs -- and gave. Never an oak tree sorrowed; Debt was the mark of the slave. Grass in the priceless weather Sucked from the paps of the Earth, And the hills that were lean it fleshed with green -- Oh, what is a lesson worth? But still did the buyers barter And the sellers squint at the scales; And price was the stake of the martyr, And cost was the lock of the jails. VII Windflowers herald the Maytide, Rendering worth for worth; Ragweeds gladden the wayside, Biting the dugs of the Earth; Violets, scattering glories, Feed from the dewy gem: But dreamers are fed by the living and dead -- And what is the gift from them? VIII Never a stalk of the Summer Dreams of its mission and doom: Only to hasten the Comer -- Martyrdom unto the Bloom. Ever the Mighty Chooser Plucks when the fruit is ripe, Scorning the mass and letting it pass, Keen for the cryptic type. Greece in her growing season Troubled the lands and seas, Plotted and fought and suffered and wrought -- Building a Sophocles! Only a faultless temple Stands for the vassal's groan; The harlot's strife and the faith of the wife Blend in a graven stone. Ne'er do the stern gods cherish The hope of the million lives; Always the Fact shall perish And only the Truth survives. Gardens of roses wither, Shaping the perfect rose: And the poet's song shall live for the long, Dumb, aching years of prose. IX King of a Realm of Magic, He was the fool of the town, Hiding the ache of the tragic Under the grin of the clown. Worn with the vain endeavor To fit in the sordid plan; Doomed to be poet forever, He longed to be only a man; To be freed from the god's enthralling, Back with the reeds of the stream; Deaf to the Vision calling, And dead to the lash of the Dream. X But still did the Mighty Makers Stir in the common sod; The corn through its awful acres Trembled and thrilled with God! More than a man was the sower, Lured by a man's desire, For a triune Bride walked close at his side -- Dew and Dust and Fire! More than a man was the plowman, Shouting his gee and haw; For a something dim kept pace with him, And ever the poet saw; Till the winds of the cosmic struggle Made of his flesh a flute, To echo the tune of a whirlwind rune Unto the million mute. XI