Classic Poem

O, prophet fling a glowing coal of fire
From off thine Altar, cast it to the lewd
That they may roast their meat upon it, stir
Their cauldron, warm their palms;
And fling a spark from out thy heart to burn
The cigarette they smoke;
Illume the crafty smile that, thieflike lurks
Beneath their lips, the cunning in their eyes;
They come and go these liars; on their tongue
The prayer which thou has taught them.
They share thy sorrow, and thy hope they hope,
They raise their soul toward thy ruined altar
And, hastening to the wreckage, in the heap
They rummage, picking out its shattered stones
To use for floor tiles or the garden fence
Or set as tombs on graves.
And if they find thy heart, scorched 'midst the sherds
They'll throw it to the dogs.
O stamp upon thine altar, stamp in rage,
Beat down its fire and smoke,
Blast with one sweep the spiders' webs spread out
Like harp-strings o'er thy heart,
For thou hast weaved a song of life from them,
A vision of salvation—vain the burden,
Deceit upon the ear.
Fling them to the winds; over the worlds waste places
Rent, shining they shall float
At end of summer on a warm, moist day;
No silver thread, no web shall find its mate,
And they will perish on the first wet day.
Thine iron hammer, shattered by much beating
In vain on hearts of stone,
Break piece by piece, and make therewith a spade
To dig a grave for us;
And speak the curse that God puts in thy mouth,
Let not they lips know fear;
Thy word may be bitter as death, even death
Itself, we'll know and hear.

Behold the night—the shadows gather round
And we go stumbling forward like the blind,
A something crossed our midst—no man knows what,
And no one speaks and there is none to tell,
If now for us the sun arose or set,
Nor if he set for ever,
And all around is chaos, black and vast
And refuge there is none.
And if we cry aloud and if we pray—
Who hears us?
And if we fling an awful curse abroad—
On whose head will it fall?
And if we gnash our teeth and clench our fist—
Whose skull shall start in twain?
The void will swallow up, the wind will waft away,
They perished once before—will perish thus again.
No strength, no stay, we cannot see the road,
The heavens are dumb.
They know they sinned against us, grievously,
And bear their sin in silence. …
Unclose their lips, O prophet of last things,
And hast thou words, then speak!
Though bitter they shall be as death itself,
No matter—only speak!
Shall Death affright us? nay, his angel rides
Upon our shoulders, and his bridle drags
Our mouth incessantly. …
And with the risen corpse's ghastly smile,
The gambler's hideous glee,
For ever do we move toward the grave.