OUTSIDE THE CARLTON

The death of the grey withered grass
    Of man’s is a sign,
    And his life is as wine
That is spilt from a half-shivered glass. 
    At a quarter to nine
    Went Dives to dine ... 
(Man, it is said, is as grass.)

Riches and plunder had met
    To furnish his feast—­
    Both succulent beast
And fish from the fisherman’s net;
    While he tasteth of dishes
    And all his soul wishes—­
Nor knoweth his hour hath been set.

The death of the pale-sodden hay
    ’Neath the feet of the kine
    Is to man for a sign;
At the striking of ten he was grey,
    And they carried him out
    Stiff-strangled with gout. 
(Man, it is said, is as hay.)

THE PATER OF THE CANNON

Father of the thunder,
  Flinger of the flame,
Searing stars asunder,
  Hallowed be Thy Name!

By the sweet-sung quiring
  Sister bullets hum,
By our fiercest firing,
  May Thy Kingdom come!

By Thy strong apostle
  Of the Maxim gun,
By his pentecostal
  Flame, Thy Will be done!

Give us, Lord, good feeding
  To Thy battles sped—­Flesh,
white grained and bleeding,
  Give for daily bread!

FLEET STREET

I never see the newsboys run
  Amid the whirling street,
  With swift untiring feet,
To cry the latest venture done,
But I expect one day to hear
  Them cry the crack of doom
  And risings from the tomb,
With great Archangel Michael near;
And see them running from the Fleet
  As messengers of God,
  With Heaven’s tidings shod
About their brave unwearied feet.

NIGHTMARE

I dreamt that the heavens were beggared
  And angels went chanting for bread,
And the cherubs were sewed up in sackcloth,
  And Satan anointed his head. 
I dreamt they had chalked up a price
  On the sun and the stars at God’s feet,
And the Devil had bought up the Church,
  And put out the Pope in the street.

TO A NOBLEMAN BECOMING SOCIALIST

I do remember thee so blest and filled
  With all life offered thee,
Yet unsurprised I learn that thou hast willed
  To share or lose her fee.

It seems a very great and stalwart thing
  To toss defence away,
To tear the golden feathers from thy wing
  And lie with shards of clay.

To some far vision’s light thine eyes are set
  That mock life’s treasure trove,
And see the changing woof not woven yet
  As God would have it wove.

The red thou flauntest bravely, friend, for me
  Hast lost alarming power;
For who but guilty men will quake their knee,
  And who but robbers cower?

For many hallowed things are symbolled red,
  Live fire and cleansing war,
And the bright sealing Blood that Christ once shed,
  And Martyrs yet must pour.