Among the Millet and Other Poems

John Stuart Mill · en
Ah, we were simple of mind, not knowing,
      How dreadful the heart of a man might be;
    But the knowledge of evil is mighty of growing;
      Only the deaf and the blind are free.

    We came to a garden of beauty and pleasure--
      It was not the way that our own feet chose--
    Where a revel was whirling in many a measure,
      And the myriad roar of a great crowd rose;

    And the midmost round of the garden was reddened
      With pillars of fire in a great high ring--
    One look--and our souls forever were deadened,
      Though our feet yet move, and our dreams yet sting;

    For we saw that each was a live man flaming,
      Limbs that a human mother bore,
    And a thing of horror was done, past naming,
      And the crowd spun round, and we saw no more.

    And he that ran in the midst, descrying,
      Lifted his hand with a foul red sneer,
    And smote us each and the other, crying,
      "Thus we worship the new God here.

    "The Cæsar comes, and the people's pæans
      Hail his name for the new made light,
    Pitch and the flesh of the Galileans,
      Torches fit for a Roman night;"

    And we fell down to the earth, and sickened,
      Moaning, three of us, head by head,
    "Where is He, whom the good God quickened?
      Where is Jesus, the living bread?"

    Yet ever we heard, in the foul mirth turning,
      Man and woman and child go by,
    And ever the yells of the charred men burning,
      Piercing heavenward, cry on cry;

    And we lay there, till the frightful revel
      Died in the dawn with a few short moans
    Of some that knelt in the wan and level
      Shadows, that fell from the blackened bones.

    Numb with horror and sick with pity,
      The heart of each as an iron weight,
    We crept in the dawn from the awful city,
      Journeying out of the seaward gate.

    The great sun came from the sea before us;
      A soft wind blew from the scented south;
    But our eyes knew not of the steps that bore us
      Down to the ships at the Tiber's mouth;

    And we prayed then, as we turned our faces
      Over the sea to the living God,
    That our ways might be in the fierce bare places,
      Where never the foot of a live man trod:

    And we set sail in the noon not caring.
      Whither the prow of the dark ship came,
    No more over the old ways faring;
      For the sea was cold, but the land was flame:

    And the keen ship sped, and a deadly coma
      Blotted away from our eyes forever,
    Tower on tower, the great city Roma,
      Palace and temple and yellow river.




THE COMING OF WINTER.


    Out of the Northland sombre weirds are calling;
      A shadow falleth southward day by day;
    Sad summer's arms grow cold; his fire is falling;
      His feet draw back to give the stern one way.