Classic Poem

Why are these streets aflare? — Today
we are born a folk. — What love begot? —
Our mother's need. — Whither? — To slay:
see now wherewith our hand is hot. —

The old harlotry of right and wrong!
one thrives whereby another ails:
the little jealous gods are strong;
the Divine Image fades and pales.

Then count not me of yours: I stand
alone, save for whose gaze I meet
like mine in yearning for that land
that ne'er may rest our questing feet:

or had I here to choose a kin,
I think, tho' scant my hardihead,
I would not stand with you that win;
rather with them, the sore bested,

whose land is where they carry still
stout heart and sorrow and ready hand
and their indomitable will
to live and die as men who stand,

and for all warmth at heart and light
thought of the hearth they last saw burn
that eve they rode to war, nor might
rekindle, even if they return;

with them in heart at least, since here
I sicken, seeing the driven herd
run with dropt eye and craven ear —
O people, and was this thy word?