HOW slow, frightfully slow, moves the White Mind Of God into this pagan body of man's! Ashes of ritual, old lusts and ranns Die slower than the rocks the oceans grind. Die hard, but die. Yet they in tombs confined Stir stealthily; and, when wild memory fans Their dust to flame, War's red barbarians Blast the white throne of peaceful gods and kind. Out from old ways of travail and deep harm Work and high dreams have guided us and none But knows the calm of the protected height. But frail these barriers! At some alarm Fear drags us back where, with Apollyon might, Brute barks to brute, and fury blacks the sun. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...LUNCH AT A CLUB by STEPHEN VINCENT BENET MARSHALL WASHER by HAYDEN CARRUTH THE LEAVES OF THE TREE HIDE THE SUN by DAVID IGNATOW LOVE'S MIRACLE by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON TO SAMUEL COLERIDGE UPON HEARING HIS 'SOME I FEEL LIKE A MOTHERLESS..' by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON |