Classic Poem

I would not rest till work came from my hand
And then as the thing grew, till fame came,
(But only in honour) . . . and then, O, how the grand
Divination of ages grew to faith's flame.
Great were our fathers and beautiful in all name,
Happy their days, lovely in considered grain each word,
Their days were kindness, growth, happiness, mindless.

I would not rest until my County were
Thronged with the Halls of Music; and until clear
Hospitality for love were e'er possible . . .
And any for honour might come, or prayer, to certain
Fondness and long nights' talking till all's known.

Madness my enemy, cunning extreme my friend,
Prayer my safeguard. (Ashes my reward at end.)
Secrecy fervid my honour, soldier-courage my aid.
(Promise and evil threatening my soul ever-afraid.)
Now, with the work long done, to the witchcraft I bend
And crouch—that knows nothing good, Hell uncaring
Hell undismayed.