Salvage
GUNS on the battle lines have pounded now a year
between Brussels and Paris.
And, William Morris, when I read your old chapter on
the great arches and naves and little whimsical
corners of the Churches of Northern France—Brr-rr!
I’m glad you’re a dead man, William Morris, I’m glad
you’re down in the damp and mouldy, only a memory
instead of a living man—I’m glad you’re gone.
You never lied to us, William Morris, you loved the
shape of those stones piled and carved for you to
dream over and wonder because workmen got joy
of life into them,
Workmen in aprons singing while they hammered, and
praying, and putting their songs and prayers into
the walls and roofs, the bastions and cornerstones
and gargoyles—all their children and kisses of
women and wheat and roses growing.
I say, William Morris, I’m glad you’re gone, I’m glad
you’re a dead man.
Guns on the battle lines have pounded a year now between
Brussels and Paris.
