They knew not what they did. My brother bawled:
"They know what they are doing, they have killed
The prophets in all ages! Don't say that!

Don't end up soft, you cursed them hitherto,
These are the vipers that you cursed before;
These are the vultures that you said you'd shut
The gates of heaven against; these are the wolves
That thirst for blood and lap it, unrepentant
Blasphemers against you and the Holy Ghost;
Committers of unpardonable sins, the band

You drove with knotted cords from out the temple.
And what is usury or selling doves

To killing you? Why ask your Father this?

Why now this softness? Change of mood, why prayers
Instead of curses? If you're dying, sire,

Be what you were when you were flush with life,
And curse them into hell. Hold to your strength,
And curse them into hell." And so it went
With talking back and forth, mixed in with groans,
And curses, railings, while my brothers twisted
Their bodies, and hunched up their thighs and backs
To ease the strain of hanging on the nails,
And dribbled at the mouth, and babbled things
And laughed like devils in a soul possessed.

But when he thirsted and they took a sponge
And gave him vinegar, and he sucked it in,

They looked at him with eyes that bulged with fear:-
They saw him drooping, fainting, losing strength,
They struggled then and shouted: "Keep on breathing!
Breathe deep! Call on your Father! Don't give up!
Fight for your life, your god-head and ourselves!

We're here because you came and preached, and stirred
The people! Don't desert us now! Great Lord,
Messiah, Son of God, are we first martyrs

To what you failed to do? We cannot die,
You must not die. Let David's throne be lost

As lost it is, but not our lives! Great Lord!"

Thus as they chattered, chattered, bawled and shouted.
Jesus threw back his head and cried so loud
That all the valleys echoed it: "My God,

My God, why hast thou forsaken me?" And then
His head dropped on his chest-and he was dead...

They looked at him-my brothers looked at him,
And whimpered-they were beaten, but fought on.
Tears stained with blood went coursing down their cheeks.
And then the soldiers came to break their legs.

And one had fainted, but the other one

Was fighting still and said: "Have mercy, friend,
Cæsar would save me, what does Cæsar care
For one poor rebel?”

Then they broke their legs,

And all were dead. So ended up another

Chapter in this poor world's hopeless hope.

Edgar Lee Masters

THE POET AND HIS BOOK

Down, you mongrel, Death!

Back into

your kennel!

I have stolen breath

In a stalk of fennel!

You shall scratch and you shall whine
Many a night, and you shall worry
Many a bone, before you bury
One sweet bone of mine!

When shall I be dead?

When my flesh is withered,

And above my head

Yellow pollen gathered

All the empty afternoon?

When sweet lovers pause and wonder

Who am I that lie thereunder,

Hidden from the moon?

This my personal death?

That my lungs be failing

To inhale the breath

Others are exhaling?

This my subtle spirit's end?

Ah, when the thawed winter splashes

Over these chance dust and ashes,

Weep not me, my friend!

Me, by no means dead

In that hour, but surely When this book, unread,

Rots to earth obscurely,
And no more to any breast,

Close against the clamorous swelling
Of the thing there is no telling,
Are these pages pressed!

When this book is mould,
And a book of many
Waiting to be sold

For a casual penny,

In a little open case,

In a street unclean and cluttered, Where a heavy mud is spattered From the passing drays,

Stranger, pause and look;

From the dust of ages

Lift this little book,

Turn the tattered pages,

Read me, do not let me die!

Search the fading letters, finding Steadfast in the broken binding All that once was I!

When these veins are weeds,
When these hollowed sockets

Watch the rooty seeds

Bursting down like rockets,

And surmise the spring again,

Or, remote in that black cupboard, Watch the pink worms writhing upward At the smell of rain,

Boys and girls that lie
Whispering in the hedges,
Do not let me die,

Mix me with your pledges;
Boys and girls that slowly walk

In the woods, and weep, and quarrel, Staring past the pink wild laurel, Mix me with your talk,

Do not let me die!

Farmers at your raking,

When the sun is high,

While the hay is making,

When, along the stubble strewn, Withering on their stalks uneaten, Strawberries turn dark and sweeten

In the lapse of noon;

Shepherds on the hills,

In the pastures, drowsing To the tinkling bells

Of the brown sheep browsing; Sailors crying through the storm; Scholars at your study; hunters Lost amid the whirling winter's Whiteness uniform;

Men that long for sleep;

Men that wake and revel;

If an old song leap

To your senses' level

At such moments, may it be