At the Calend’s Close

“For faith hath still an Olivet And Love a Galilee.”

Two things: the triple great North Star, To poise and keep His spheres in place, And Zeus for peace: for peace the Tzar. Or Science, Progress, Good or Grace, These two the centum’s fruitage are; And of the two this olive tree Stands first, aye, first since Galilee.

Christ’s centum bends his frosted head; Christ’s calend calls a solemn roll. What shall be writ, what shall be said Of Saxon when this blood-writ scroll By God’s white light at last is read? What of ye Saxon nations, ye Who prate the Christ most noisily?

The eagle’s bent beak at the throat Of Peace where far, fair islands lie: The greedy lion sees a mote In his brave, weaker brother’s eye And crouches low, to gorge and gloat. The Prince of Peace? Ye write his name In blood, then dare to pray! For shame!

These Saxon lies on top of lies, Ten millstones to the neck of us, Forbid that we should lift our eyes Till we dare meet that manlier Russ; In peons for peace of paradise: Forbid that we, until the day We wash our hands, should dare to pray.