Classic Poem

This is the creed of little men
Never applaud the great.
Sever the halo from their deeds
And show what's left with hate.
Belittle what you would like to do
And can't — that no head
May rise higher than your head,
Except, of course, those of the dead —
Which won't matter
To your platter,
Since ghosts eat no bread.

Keep no scales to weigh worth in:
That might make you just.
Rather in thrifty prejudice
Put your whole trust.
Call your opinions unconfined
By standard or stale rule;
For every vain, gullible fool
Will proudly acclaim you Freedom's tool —
If all gauges
Good through ages
You discredit, cool.

Clamour for progress: that's the word
To deafen doubts of you.
Pose as prophets; any lie
Of vatic look will do.
Shovel the past into the past
As but a corpse a-stink —
From which noses enough will shrink
If, meanwhile, they are made to think
That no sorrow
Waits a to-morrow
Ushered in by you .

Never, finally, think that Right
And Wrong are more than sides
Of any dollar you toss up
To choose your way — mere guides
To the winning camp of the moment, where
Your own ends may be gained.
For when you have learned all faiths are feigned
Except those for self obtained,
At no altar
Need you falter
In your onward strides.