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When they have lost the little that they looked for, The poor allotment of ease, custom, fame: When the consuming star their fathers worked for Has guttered into death, a fatuous flame: When love's a cripple, faith a bed-time story, Hope cats her heart out and peace walks on knives, And suffering men cry an end to this sorry World of whose children want alone still thrives: Then shall the mounting stages of oppression Like mazed and makeshift scaffolding torn down Reveal his unexampled, best creation - The shape of man's necessity full-grown. Built from their bone, I see a power-house stand To warm men's hearts again and light the land. |