Classic Poem

The old men of the world have made a fire
To warm their trembling hands.
They poke the young men in.
The young men burn like withes.

If one run a little way,
The old men are wrath.
They catch him and bind him and throw him again to the flames.
Green withes burn slow …
And the smoke of the young men's torment
Rises round and sheer as the trunk of a pillared oak,
And the darkness thereof spreads over the sky. …

Green withes burn slow …
And the old men of the world sit round the fire
And rub their hands. …
But the smoke of the young men's torment
Ascends up for ever and ever.