For what is love, O lovers of my tribe? 
And what is love, O women of my day? 
Love is a farthing piece, a bloody bribe
Pressed in the palm of God, and thrown away.

And what is hate, O fierce and unforgiving? 
And what shall hate achieve, when all is said? 
A silly joke, that cannot reach the living,
A spitting in the faces of the dead.

And what is knowledge, O young men who tasted
The reddest fruit on that forbidden tree? 
Knowledge is but a painful effort wasted,
A bitter drowning in a bitter sea.

And what is prayer, O waiters for the answer? 
And what is prayer, O seekers of the cause? 
Prayer is the weary soul of Herod’s dancer,
Dancing before blind kings without applause.

The fifth stone is a magic stone, my David,
Made up of fear and failure, lies and loss. 
Its heart is lead, and on its face is graved
A crooked cross, my son, a crooked cross.

It has no dignity to lend it value;
No purity—­alas—­it bears a stain. 
You shall not give it gratitude, nor shall you
Recall it all your days except with pain.

Oh, bless your blindness, glory in your groping! 
Mock at your betters with an upward chin! 
And, when the moment has gone by for hoping,
Sling your fifth stone, O son of mine, and win.

Grief do I give you—­grief and dreadful laughter. 
Sackcloth for banner, ashes in your wine. 
Go forth, go forth, nor ask me what comes after. 
The fifth stone shall not fail you, son of mine.

GO FORTH, GO FORTH, AND SLAY THE PHILISTINE!

There were a few very warm days and nights in the west last spring.  It was at the time of the full moon.

There were so few clouds in the sky that when the sun went down it found no canvas on which to paint its picture.  So it went down unpictured into a bank of grey heat that hid the horizon of the sea, and no one thought it worth watching except a man coming alone along the cliff from the northeast.  The moon came up and filled the quarry with ghosts, and with confused and blinded memories.  The sea advanced in armies of great smooth waves, but under the moon the wind went down, and the waves went down, and there was less and less sound in the air.

One man watched the dwindling waves troop into the cove near the quarry.  There was only one pair of eyes in the whole world that tried that night to trace in the air the shape of a drowned house.  There was only one shadow by the quarry for the moon to cast upon the thyme.  There was no voice but the voice of the sea.  No passing but the peaceful passing of the lambs disturbed the thistles and the foxgloves.

The sea rose like a wall across the night, a wall that shut half of life away.  The sky fell like a curtain on the land, but there was no piece to be played, so the curtain was never raised.