To the Cultured

Sons of culture, God-given, First offspring of Heaven, Athletic and tanned, Well-built and not nervous, With your golf and your tweeds And your "noble editions," Quiet lives and few needs (Say a thousand a year For your earthly career) Who can't understand Discontent and seditions, May Heaven preserve us From being like you.

What are we, what am I? Poor rough creatures, whose life Is "depressing" and "grey," Is a heart-breaking strife With death and with shame And your polite laughter, Till—the world pass away In smoke and in flame, And some of us die, And some live on after To build it anew.