Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, TOWARDS DEMOCRACY: PART 2. EXCEPT THE LORD BUILD THE HOUSE, by EDWARD CARPENTER


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

TOWARDS DEMOCRACY: PART 2. EXCEPT THE LORD BUILD THE HOUSE, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: She lies, whom money has killed, and the greed of money
Last Line: Shall be changed.
Subject(s): Depressions, Economic; Politics & Government; Poverty; Recessions


SHE lies, whom Money has killed, and the greed of Money,
The thrice-driven slave, whom a man has calmly tortured,
And cast away in the dust—and calls it not murder,
Because he only looked on; while his trusted lieutenants Supply and Demand
pinned the victim down—and her own mother Nature slew her!

The old story of the sewing machine—the treadle machine;
Ten hours a day and five shillings a week, a penny an hour or so—if
the numbers were of importance.
Of course she fell ill. Indeed she had long been ailing, and the effort and
the torture were slowly disorganising her frame; and already the grim question
had been asked: Might she have rest?" (—the doctor said must—and
for many a month, too.)
And the answer came promptly as usual. "Have rest? -as much as she wanted!
It was a pity, but of course if she could not work she could go. They would make
no difficulty, as Supply would fill up her place as soon as vacant."
One more struggle then. And now she must go, for work is impossible,
and Supply has filled her place, and there is no difficulty—or
difference—except to her.
For her only the hospital pallet, and the low moaning of the distant world;

For her only the fever and the wasting pain and the nightmare of the loud
unceasing treadles;
And the strange contrast in quiet moments of the still chamber and the one
kindly face of the house-surgeon, stethoscope in hand, at her bedside;
For her only, hour after hour, the dull throbbing recollection of the
injustice of the world,
The bleak unlovely light of averted eyes thrown backwards and forwards over
her whole life,
And the unstaunched wound of the soul which is their bitter denial.
And at last the lessening of the pain, and a sense of quietude and space,
and through the murky tormented air of the great city a light, a ray of still
hope on her eyes peacefully falling;
And then in a moment the passing of the light, and a silence in the long
high-windowed ward;
And one with an aster or two and a few chrysanthemums, and one with a blown
white rain-bewept rose half-timidly coming,
To lay on her couch, with tears.

And so a grave.
In the dank smoke-blackened cemetery, in the dismal rain of the
half-awakened winter day,
A grave, for her and her only.

And yet not for her only, but for thousands—
For hundreds of thousands—to lie undone, forsaken,
Tossed impatiently back from the whirling iron—
The broken wheels, or may be merely defective—
Who cares?—
That as they spin roll off and are lost in the darkness,
Run swiftly away (as if they were alive!) into the darkness, and are
hidden;
Who cares? who cares?
Since for each one that is gone Supply will provide a thousand.

Who cares? who cares?
O tear-laden heart!
O blown white rose heavy with rain!
O sacred heart of the people!
Rose, of innumerable petals, through the long night ever blossoming!
Surely by thy fragrance wafted through the still night-air,
Surely by thy spirit exhaled over the sleeping world, I know,
Out of the bruised heart of thee exhaled, I know—
And the vision lifts itself before my eyes:—

Except the Lord build the house, they labor in vain who build it.
In vain millions of yards of calico and miles of lace work turned out per
annum;
In vain a people well clad in machine-made cloth and hosiery;
In vain a flourishing foreign trade and loose cash enough for a small war;
In vain universal congratulations and lectures on Political Economy;
In vain the steady whirr of wheels all over the land, and men and women
serving stunted and pale before them, as natural as possible;
Except Love build the house, they labor in vain who build it.
O rich and powerful of the earth!
Behold, your riches are all in vain—you are poorer than the poorest of
these children!
Against one such whom you have wronged your armies your police and all the
laws that you can frame shall not prevail.
Your palaces of splendor are reared from the beginning upon a foundation of
lies, and the graves that you have dug for others shall be for your own burial.

The word is gone forth!
The wealth the power that you have coveted crumble from your grasp as in a
dream.
You have thought to drive armies of starving slaves to win idleness and
luxury for you;
But it shall be as a dream: they shall surely elude you.
Behold, your armies shall vanish away—even while the word is on your
lips, while your hand of command is lifted,
Your armies shall vanish away like smoke, they shall surely surely elude
you.

In Death shall they vanish away,
(O fragrance wafted through the still night-air!)
In Death shall they breathe through your bonds and become as the impalpable
winds.
Like deserters at night stealing away in thousands out of a camp,
They shall pass a ghostly army to the other side:
Broken and worn and sick—a ghostly army shall they pass and vanish;
And ye shall dream that they are gone.

But they are not gone.
For with the morning, out of the ground,
Out of their mother Earth—star-thick, and ye cannot bind them more
than ye can bind the stars—
Out of the heart of their mother, and out of the hearts of the asters and
star-shaped chrysanthemums,
Arising—
Through the hollow air and down the rustling flowing rivers,
Over the meadows with the feet of the wind whitening the grass,
From the mystic chambers of their innumerable homes—out of the mystic
doors—
Out of the doors of Death and Birth, in thousands, out of the doors of
preparation,
Full-equipped hastening, from all sides swiftly gathering,
A radiant army into your great towns pouring,
Down your long streets striding, they shall return.

Spirits of awful knowledge,
(Clad anew with fleshly hands and feet, through sunlit eyes still
glancing,)
And of deep-gathered silent age-long experience;
Spirits of the suffering brotherhood, spirits of awful authority—
Before whom materials shrivel and the accumulations of Custom are blown on
the wind like chaff—
A self-appointed army they shall return:

Out of whom the word of transformation—
Whispered on many a half-awakened winter day to the silent earth
alone—
Shall be spoken aloud as with a trumpet over the world—and the world
shall be changed.





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