Classic Poem

“What is your creed?” cried the census man;
And I answered: I have none:
I am one of the hosts of Barbary
Who worship beneath the sun.
We have temples aflame with flowers;
And wearing the clouds their towers.
And the seven days are the hymns of praise
We sing to the Holy One.

The creed hath need of a belfry bell
To summon the knee to prayer.
But we, of the Hosts of Barbary,
Are called by the love we bear.
O, we ride through the morning dews
To gird on the Master's shoes.
And we wait by night, while the stars burn white,
The soul of His smile to share.

Ten falsehoods nailed to a truth have ye;
And a long cathedral aisle.
And we, of the Hosts of Barbary,
Stand out on the hills and smile.
But we garner your truthful word
And add it to one we heard,
From a pagan band, somewhere in a land
By the Ganges or the Nile.

Ye feed your souls on a worn-out scroll,
And chain them to chapel walls;
Until they have never a thought of God
Away from their pews and stalls.
But we, whom your numbers despise,
Are pastured on cloudless skies;
For our souls have found that Holy Ground
Is ever where Beauty calls.

And ye are bound to a rule and law
Upheld by a chant and charm.
But we are fed from the veins of flowers
That redden an upland's arm.
O, in Barbary fair we grow
A lily as white as snow;
And a damask rose to welcome those
Why fly from a creed's alarm.

So go to him who would know thy creed
And say to him: “None have I:
I have joined the Hosts of Barbary
Who worship beneath the sky.”
For a day, when the last creed's power
Goes down with her temple's tower,
From a granite peak, shall the great God speak;
And Barbary's hosts pass by.