The seeds we sowed a year ago

Bring in their harvest now:

A pleasing straw to those who know

They must forsake the plough.

God speed the plough! And broad and even

Drive on an honest furrow straight:

The schoolmasters of Carlyle’s heaven

Give prizes at the honours gate.

But who from serious tasks would turn

Race with wind, or play with fire,

Contempt from honest men shall earn,

Emptiness from all desire.

And who with blistered hands turns back

Shall hear the blackbird chacking dark,

When at his shoulder, endless black,

Cold fogs obliterate his mark.

In jubilation bonfires blaze:

So well entrenched the dragon’s teeth

We broadcast, Caesar’s self shall praise

The cenotaphs we lie beneath.