The City Wall
About the city where I dwell, guarding it close, runs an embattled wall.
It was not new, I think, when Arthur was a king, and plumed knights before a British wall made brave clangor of trumpets, that Launcelot came forth.
It was not new, I think, and now not it but chivalry is old.
Without, the wall is brick, with slots for firing; and it drops straightway into the evil moat, where offal floats and nameless things are thrown.
Within, the wall is earth; it slants more gently down, covered with grass and stubby with cut weeds. Below it is straw lairs the beggars herd, patiently whining, stretching out their sores.
And on the top a path runs.
As I walk, lifted above the squalor and the dirt, the timeless miracle of sunset mantles in the west,
The blue dusk gathers close
And beauty moves immortal through the land.
And I walk quickly, praying in my heart that beauty will defend me, will heal up the too great wounds of China.
I will not look — tonight I will not look — where at my feet the little coffins are,
The boxes where the beggar children lie, unburied and unwatched.
I will not look again, for once I saw how one was broken, torn by the sharp teeth of dogs. A little tattered dress was there, and some crunched bones. . . .
I need not look. What can it help to look?
Ah, I am past!
And still the sunset glows.
The tall pagoda, like a velvet flower, blossoms against the sky; the Sacred Mountain fades, and in the town a child laughs suddenly.
I will hold fast to beauty! Who am I, that I should die for these?
I will go down. I am too sorely hurt, here on the city wall.
It was not new, I think, when Arthur was a king, and plumed knights before a British wall made brave clangor of trumpets, that Launcelot came forth.
It was not new, I think, and now not it but chivalry is old.
Without, the wall is brick, with slots for firing; and it drops straightway into the evil moat, where offal floats and nameless things are thrown.
Within, the wall is earth; it slants more gently down, covered with grass and stubby with cut weeds. Below it is straw lairs the beggars herd, patiently whining, stretching out their sores.
And on the top a path runs.
As I walk, lifted above the squalor and the dirt, the timeless miracle of sunset mantles in the west,
The blue dusk gathers close
And beauty moves immortal through the land.
And I walk quickly, praying in my heart that beauty will defend me, will heal up the too great wounds of China.
I will not look — tonight I will not look — where at my feet the little coffins are,
The boxes where the beggar children lie, unburied and unwatched.
I will not look again, for once I saw how one was broken, torn by the sharp teeth of dogs. A little tattered dress was there, and some crunched bones. . . .
I need not look. What can it help to look?
Ah, I am past!
And still the sunset glows.
The tall pagoda, like a velvet flower, blossoms against the sky; the Sacred Mountain fades, and in the town a child laughs suddenly.
I will hold fast to beauty! Who am I, that I should die for these?
I will go down. I am too sorely hurt, here on the city wall.
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