Classic Poem

It has always been King Herod that I feared;
— King Herod and his kinsmen, ever since. . . .
I do not like the colour of your beard;
— I think that you are wicked, and a prince.

I keep no stable . . . how your horses stamp! . . .
— If you are wise men, you will leave me soon;
I have been frightened by a thievish tramp
— Who counted bloody silver in the moon.

You get no lodging underneath these roofs,
— No, though you pay in frankincense and myrrh;
Your harness jangles with your horses' hooves;
— Be quiet; you will wake him if you stir.

This is no church for Zoroastrians,
— Nor resting-place for governors from Rome;
Oh, I have knowledge of your secret plans;
— Your faces are familiar; go home.

And you, young captain of the lion stare,
— Subdue your arrogance to this advice;
You should forbid your soldiery to swear,
— To spit at felons, and to play at dice.

You have perceived, above the chimney ledge,
— Hanging inverted by Saint David's harp,
His sword from heaven, with the double edge
— Which, for your service, is no longer sharp.

He sleeps, like some ingenuous shepherd boy
— Or carpenter's apprentice, but his slim
And wounded hands shall never more destroy
— Another giant; do not waken him.

The counterpane conceals the deeper wound
— Which lately I have washed with vinegar;
Now let this iron bar be importuned;
— I say you shall not speak to him of war.