Friend, your white beard sweeps the ground.

And the peaks looked toward God alone.‘O Master that movest the wind with a finger,Humble, idle, futile peaks are we.Grant that we may run swiftly across the worldTo huddle in worship at Thy feet.’In the morningA noise of men at work came the clear blue miles,And the little black cities were apparent.‘O Master that knowest…

I say you lie;For I did see youDraw away your coatsFrom the sin upon the handsOf a little child.Liar!

Who sat, all still,Regarding a newspaper.He accosted me:‘Sir, what is this? ‘Then I saw that I was greater,Aye, greater than this sage.I answered him at once,‘Old, old man, it is the wisdom of the age.’The sage looked upon me with admiration.

And eventually he achieved it —It was clay.Now this is the strange part:When the man went to the earthAnd looked again,Lo, there was the ball of gold.Now this is the strange part:It was a ball of gold.Aye, by the heavens, it was a ball of gold.

You are a toad.’And after I had thought of it,I said, ‘I will, then, be a toad.’

Cunningly weave sunlight,Breezes, and flowers.Let it be of the cloth of meadows.And – good workman –And let there be a man walking thereon.

In little songs of carmine, violet, green, gold.A chorus of colours came over the water;The wondrous leaf-shadow no longer wavered,No pines crooned on the hills,The blue night was elsewhere a silence,When the chorus of colours came over the water,Little songs of carmine, violet, green, gold.Small glowing pebblesThrown on the dark plane of eveningSing good ballads…

Spreads its curious opinionTo a million merciful and sneering men,While families cuddle the joys of the firesideWhen spurred by tale of dire lone agony.A newspaper is a courtWhere every one is kindly and unfairly triedBy a squalor of honest men.A newspaper is a marketWhere wisdom sells its freedomAnd melons are crowned by the crowd.A newspaper…

But no meat for men is in thee.Then —But, alas, we all are babes.

And I was in a reptile-swarming place,Peopled, otherwise, with grimaces,Shrouded above in black impenetrableness.I shrank, loathing,Sick with it.And I said to him,‘What is this?’He made answer slowly,‘Spirit, this is a world;This was your home.’

Is it realOr is this the thrice-damned memory of a better happiness?Plague on him if he be deadPlague on him if he be aliveA swinish numbskullTo intrude his shadeAlways between me and my peace.

And clash and clash of hoof and heel,Wild shouts and the wave of hairIn the rush upon the wind:Thus the ride of sin.