A Look into the Gulf

Stand back, ye trembling messengers of ill!
Women, let go my hair: I am the Queen,
A whirlwind and a blaze of swords to quell
Insurgent cities. Let the iron tread

Of armies shake the earth. Look, lofty towers:
Assyria goes by upon the wind!"

And so she babbles by the ancient road,
While cities turned to dust upon the Earth
Rise through her whirling brain to live again—
Babbles all night, and when her voice is dead
Her weary lips beat on without a sound.

The crest and crowning of all good,
Life's final star, is Brotherhood;
For it will bring again to Earth
Her long-lost Poesy and Mirth;
Will send new light on every face,
A kingly power upon the race.
And till it come, we men are slaves,
And travel downward to the dust of graves.

Come, clear the way, then, clear the

way:

Blind creeds and kings have had their day.
Break the dead branches from the path:

Our hope is in the aftermath

Our hope is in heroic men,

Star-led to build the world again.

To this Event the ages ran.

Make way for Brotherhood—make way for Man.

Song of the Followers of Pan

Our bursting bugles blow apart
The gates of cities as we go;
We bring the music of the heart
From secret wells in Lillimo'.

We break in music on the morns
Sing of the flower to stirring roots;
Apollo's cry is in the horns,

And Hermes' whisper in the flutes.

We come with laughter to the Earth,
And lightly stir the heading wheat:
Our God is Poesy and Mirth,

And loves the noise of woodland feet.

When dancers beat the air to sound,
After the time of yellow sheaves,

He stops to watch the merry round,

His pleased face looking through the leaves.

Little ants in leafy wood,
Bound by gentle Brotherhood,
While ye gaily gather spoil,

Men are ground by the wheel of toil;

While ye follow Blessed Fates,

Men are shriveled up with hates;
Or they lie with sheeted Lust,
And they eat the bitter dust.

Ye are fraters in your hall,

Gay and chainless, great and small;
All are toilers in the field,

Little Brothers of the Ground

All are sharers in the yield.
But we mortals plot and plan
How to grind the fellow-man;
Glad to find him in a pit,
If we get some gain of it.
So with us, the sons of Time,
Labor is a kind of crime,

For the toilers have the least,
While the idlers lord the feast.

Yes, our workers they are bound,
Pallid captives to the ground;
Jeered by traitors, fooled by knaves,
Till they stumble into graves.

How appears to tiny eyes
All this wisdom of the wise?