The City Wall

About the city where I dwell, guarding it close, runs an embattled wall. It was not new I think when Arthur was a king, and plumèd knights before a British wall made brave clangor of trumpets, that Launcelot came forth. It was not new I think, and now not it but chivalry is old.

Without, the wall is brick, with slots for firing, and it drops straightway into the evil moat, where offal floats and nameless things are thrown. Within, the wall is earth; it slants more gently down, covered with grass and stubbly with cut weeds. Below it in straw lairs the beggars herd, patiently whining, stretching out their sores. And on the top a path runs.

As I walk, lifted above the squalor and the dirt, the timeless miracle of sunset mantles in the west, The blue dusk gathers close And beauty moves immortal through the land. And I walk quickly, praying in my heart that beauty will defend me, will heal up the too great wounds of China.

I will not look—to-night I will not look—where at my feet the little coffins are, The boxes where the beggar children lie, unburied and unwatched. I will not look again, for once I saw how one was broken, torn by the sharp teeth of dogs. A little tattered dress was there, and some crunched bones.... I need not look. What can it help to look?

Ah, I am past! And still the sunset glows. The tall pagoda, like a velvet flower, blossoms against the sky; the Sacred Mountain fades, and in the town a child laughs suddenly. I will hold fast to beauty! Who am I, that I should die for these?

I will go down. I am too sorely hurt, here on the city wall.