Here we sit in a branchy row,
Thinking of beautiful things we know;
Dreaming of deeds that we mean to do,
All complete, in a minute or two-
Something noble and grand and good,
Won by merely wishing we could.

Now we're going to-never mind,
Brother, thy tail hangs down behind!

All the talk we ever have heard
Uttered by bat or beast or bird-
Hide or fin or scale or feather—
Jabber it quickly and all together!
Excellent! Wonderful! Once again!
Now we are talking just like men.

Let's pretend we are . . . Never mind!
Brother, thy tail hangs down behind!
This is the way of the Monkey-kind!

Then join our leaping lines that scumfish through the pines,
That rocket by where, light and high, the wild-grape swings.
By the rubbish in our wake, and the noble noise we make,
Be sure-be sure, we're going to do some splendid things!

THE FABULISTS

1914-18

WHEN all the world would keep a matter hid,
Since Truth is seldom friend to any crowd,

Men write in fable, as old Æsop did,

Jesting at that which none will name aloud. And this they needs must do, or it will fall Unless they please they are not heard at all

When desperate Folly daily laboureth

To work confusion upon all we have,
When diligent Sloth demandeth Freedom's death,
And banded Fear commandeth Honour's grave-
Even in that certain hour before the fall
Unless men please they are not heard at all.

Needs must all please, yet some not all for need,
Needs must all toil, yet some not all for gain,
But that men taking pleasure may take heed,

Whom present toil shall snatch from later pain. Thus some have toiled but their reward was small Since, though they pleased, they were not heard at all.

This was the lock that lay upon our lips,

This was the yoke that we have undergone, Denying us all pleasant fellowships

As in our time and generation.

Our pleasures unpursued age past recall.
And for our pains-we are not heard at all.

What man hears aught except the groaning guns?
What man heeds aught save what each instant brings?
When each man's life all imaged life outruns,
What man shall pleasure in imaginings?

So it hath fallen, as it was bound to fall,
We are not, nor we were not, heard at all.

"OUR FATHERS ALSO❞

THRONES, Powers, Dominions, Peoples, Kings,
Are changing 'neath our hand.

Our fathers also see these things
But they do not understand.

By-they are by with mirth and tears,
Wit or the works of Desire-

Cushioned about on the kindly years
Between the wall and the fire.

The grapes are pressed, the corn is shockedStandeth no more to glean;

For the Gates of Love and Learning locked When they went out between.

All lore our Lady Venus bares,

Signalled it was or told

By the dear lips long given to theirs.

And longer to the mould.

All Profit, all Device, all Truth

Written it was or said

By the mighty men of their mighty youth,

Which is mighty being dead.

The film that floats before their eyes

The Temple's Veil they call;

And the dust that on the Shewbread lies

Is holy over all.

Warn them of seas that slip our yoke

Of slow-conspiring stars—

The ancient Front of Things unbroke
But heavy with new wars?

By-they are by with mirth and tears,
Wit or the waste of Desire-
Cushioned about on the kindly years
Between the wall and the fire!

A BRITISH-ROMAN SONG

(A. D. 406)

MY FATHER'S father saw it not,
And I, belike, shall never come,
To look on that so-holy spot-

The very Rome

Crowned by all Time, all Art, all Might
The equal work of Gods and Man,
City beneath whose oldest height-
The Race began!

Soon to send forth again a brood,
Unshakeable, we pray, that clings,
To Rome's thrice-hammered hardihood-
In arduous things.

Strong heart with triple armour bound,
Beat strongly, for thy life-blood runs,
Age after Age, the Empire round-
In us thy Sons

Who, distant from the Seven Hills,
Loving and serving much, require
Thee-thee to guard 'gainst home-born ills,
The Imperial Fire!

A PICT SONG

ROME never looks where she treads.
Always her heavy hooves fall,

On our stomachs, our hearts or our heads;
And Rome never heeds when we bawl.

Her sentries pass on-that is all,

And we gather behind them in hordes, And plot to reconquer the Wall, With only our tongues for our swords.

We are the Little Folk-we!
Too little to love or to hate.
Leave us alone and you'll see

How we can drag down the State!
We are the worm in the wood!
We are the rot at the root!
We are the taint in the blood!
We are the thorn in the foot!

Mistletoe killing an oak—

Rats gnawing cables in two-
Moths making holes in a cloak-
How they must love what they do!
Yes-and we Little Folk too,
We are busy as they-

Working our works out of view—
Watch, and you'll see it some day!

No indeed! We are not strong,
But we know Peoples that are.
Yes, and we'll guide them along,
To smash and destroy you in War!
We shall be slaves just the same?
Yes, we have always been slaves,
But you-you will die of the shame,
And then we shall dance on your graves!

We are the Little Folk, we, etc.