I looked one night, and there Semiramis, With all her mourning doves about her head, Sat rocking on an ancient road of Hell, Withered and eyeless, chanting to the moon Snatches of song they sang to her of old Upon the lighted roofs of Nineveh. And then her voice rang out with rattling laugh: “The bugles! they are crying back again-- Bugles that broke the nights of Babylon, And then went crying on through Nineveh. * * * * * Stand back, ye trembling messengers of ill! Women, let go my hair: I am the Queen, A whirlwind and a blaze of swords to quell Insurgent cities. Let the iron tread Of armies shake the earth. Look, lofty towers: Assyria goes by upon the wind!” And so she babbles by the ancient road, While cities turned to dust upon the Earth Rise through her whirling brain to live again-- Babbles all night, and when her voice is dead Her weary lips beat on without a sound. Brotherhood The crest and crowning of all good, Life’s final star, is Brotherhood; For it will bring again to Earth Her long-lost Poesy and Mirth; Will send new light on every face, A kingly power upon the race. And till it come, we men are slaves, And travel downward to the dust of graves. Come, clear the way, then, clear the way: Blind creeds and kings have had their day. Break the dead branches from the path: Our hope is in the aftermath-- Our hope is in heroic men, Star-led to build the world again. To this Event the ages ran: Make way for Brotherhood--make way for Man. Song of the Followers of Pan Our bursting bugles blow apart The gates of cities as we go; We bring the music of the heart From secret wells in Lillimo’. We break in music on the morns-- Sing of the flower to stirring roots; Apollo’s cry is in the horns, And Hermes’ whisper in the flutes. We come with laughter to the Earth, And lightly stir the heading wheat: Our God is Poesy and Mirth, And loves the noise of woodland feet. When dancers beat the air to sound, After the time of yellow sheaves, He stops to watch the merry round, His pleased face looking through the leaves. Little Brothers of the Ground Little ants in leafy wood, Bound by gentle Brotherhood, While ye gaily gather spoil, Men are ground by the wheel of toil; While ye follow Blessed Fates, Men are shriveled up with hates; Or they lie with sheeted Lust, And they eat the bitter dust.