Classic Poem

And yet this ‘Enemy’ counters all my song.
His is a battle all the way along.
With him the machete never seems to rust.
No room with him for thoughts of the ultimate dust.
Confucian philosophy and arms
Seem equal partners in his iron charms.
Ideal samurai, virtuous, loyal, modest,
He brings a tolerant something to the West,
That was never there before, I think, with this
Odd code of a devotion we have lost:
Samurai, yes, but with an artist crossed.
His not the tender moon above the stream!
And yet what pathos in this bitter gleam
Upon the unwanted weapons, of one grieved
To find his country gardens all unleaved
At the behest of half-men, a thought lower
Than the lowest yet, since the days of Priam or Noah—
The Gutter Men (like the Beaker Men): a mark
They will leave on everything, ghastly and dark.
The Money Men—our weakness gave them their chance.
The fault is ours—if we stalk to their voodoo dance.
If so the man you are half this to see,
You must salute this outcast Enemy—
Outcasted for refusal to conform
To the phases of this artificial storm.
If so the man he were to lift the hand,
To-morrow he would promptly be unbanned,
Saluting if the ruffian of the piece—
If saying what he knows by heart to please.