Classic Poem

Anger is ofttimes holy. Half the worth
Of song lies in the singer's sudden sword,
Along which burns the anger of the Lord
To smite “the high priests and rulers” of the earth.
A thing most holy was Elijah's mirth,—
The awful mocking gibes his lips outpoured
Midmost the palsied powerless priestly horde
Who shrieked in vain round their stone altars' girth.

Great anger at small anger is no crime:
So when we open Keble's page and lo!
We find a malediction in his rhyme
And spite's stream foaming in weak overflow
We volley back the curse of Man and Time,
And render scourge for scourge and blow for blow.