There was a man with tongue of wood Who essayed to sing, And in truth it was lamentable. But there was one who heard The clip-clapper of this tongue of wood And knew what the man Wished to sing, And with that the singer was content.

 

 

 

 

The successful man has thrust himself Through the water of the years, Reeking wet with mistakes,— Bloody mistakes; Slimed with victories over the lesser, A figure thankful on the shore of money. Then, with the bones of fools He buys silken banners Limned with his triumphant face; With the skins of wise men He buys the trivial bows of all. Flesh painted with marrow Contributes a coverlet, A coverlet for his contented slumber. In guiltless ignorance, in ignorant guilt, He delivered his secrets to the riven multitude.   “Thus I defended: Thus I wrought.” Complacent, smiling, He stands heavily on the dead. Erect on a pillar of skulls He declaims his trampling of babes; Smirking, fat, dripping, He makes speech in guiltless ignorance, Innocence.

 

 

 

 

In the night Grey heavy clouds muffled the valleys, And the peaks looked toward God alone.    “O Master that movest the wind with a finger,    “Humble, idle, futile peaks are we.    “Grant that we may run swiftly across the world    “To huddle in worship at Thy feet.”  In the morning A noise of men at work came the clear blue miles, And the little black cities were apparent.    “O Master that knowest the meaning of raindrops,    “Humble, idle, futile peaks are we.    “Give voice to us, we pray, O Lord,    “That we may sing Thy goodness to the sun.”  In the evening The far valleys were sprinkled with tiny lights.   “O Master,   “Thou that knowest the value of kings and birds,   

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