HE Kings go by with jewled crowns;
Their horses gleam, their banners shake, their spears are many.
The sack of many-peopled towns Is all their dream:
The way they take Leaves but a ruin in the brake,
And, in the furrow that the plowmen make,
A stampless penny, a tale, a dream.
The Merchants reckon up their gold,
Their letters come, their ships arrive, their freights are glories;
The profits of their treasures sold They tell and sum;
Their foremen drive Their servants, starved to half-alive,
Whose labors do but make the earth a hive Of stinking stories; a tale, a dream.
The Priests are singing in their stalls,
Their singing lifts, their incense burns, their praying clamors;
Yet God is as the sparrow falls,
The ivy drifts;
The votive urns Are all left void when Fortune turns,
The god is but a marble for the kerns To break with hammers; a tale, a dream.
O Beauty, let me know again The green earth cold, the April rain, the quiet waters figuring sky,
The one star risen.
So shall I pass into the feast Not touched by King,
Merchant, or Priest;
Know the red spirit of the beast,
Be the green grain;
Escape from prison.
