Classic Poem

We are breaking up the moulds
With a rattle and a clatter,
Wielding hammers at strongholds,
Laughing as the fragments scatter,
And our hands, once brave for making,
Tear and hurl and crush and batter,
With a frenzy in the breaking,
And a passion that shall shatter
All the moulds,
The ancient moulds,
In this white hour of our waking.

So we swing the hammers high,
Braces yield and walls grow slack,
Spires topple from the sky,
Roof-trees massive, chimneys black,
Mosque and temple, shop and jail,
Make a litter like the sack
Of a town in some old tale,
When the moulds began to crack,
All the moulds,
The ancient moulds,
Weighed and wanting in the scale.

But a new world shall be won,
That no hand shall smite or tear —
So we cry, who stumble, run,
Hammers lifted, while we spare
One small mould — two feet, two hands,
And a round head hot with hair!
This the mould that scars and brands
With its flaw, what worlds we dare!
This the mould,
The ancient mould,
That yields and bends and cracks — but stands!

We are breaking up the moulds
With a rattle and a clatter,
Wielding hammers at strongholds,
Laughing as the fragments scatter,
Singing as our chisels gnaw,
Biting through the stones we shatter,
Breaking without rule or law —
Moulds must go — it does not matter —
All the moulds,
The ancient moulds,
Shaped of one mould with a flaw!