Classic Poem

I CARE not for the scorn of mocking faces:
I spurn the foaming menace of their rage,
The lot is fallen to me in pleasant places,
Mine is a fair and goodly heritage.
Thou art my God — what can the mad world proffer?
Thou art my God — I scorn their fellowships:
Their sacrifice of blood will I not offer:
I will not have their name upon my lips.
Then let them take their fill of lust and madness,
And put their trust in shield and sword and lance,
The Lord shall fill my cup with joy and gladness,
The Lord Himself is my inheritance.
Lord, they are Thine to guide and guard and cherish,
To hold dominion over sea and land,
Destroy, or be destroyed; to strike and perish —
They are a sword in Thy almighty hand,
Give them their portion — overflowing measure
Of that whereto their hungry souls aspire,
Fill their dull bellies with unstinted treasure,
Houses and lands and sons at their desire.
To me Thou sayest: " Come and I will show thee
The fullness of my joy," and at Thy side,
There in Thy presence, Lord, I see and know Thee,
And there — and there my soul is satisfied.