Roy Temple House

WE are born short of sight; but some of us,

Some who are human, grow to presbyopes

And set lack-lustre eyes on distant stars

And infinite impersonals: the children

Who worship gilt and sugar, break their gods

(Breaking their hearts with every bitter blow),

And pin their faith to others; till at last,

Finding this life a plated thing, they turn

To Heaven, to a listless second choice.

Happy the scattered, joyous polytheists

Who, loving God and gossip, prayers and gold,

Float smoothly here and yonder, like the bee

Who, finding that bloom dry, falls into this one.

And, failing of such versatility,

I have been tempted now and then to call

Happy a young lieutenant I have known,

Who held both arms out to the Long-desired

And clasped the bloody earth with those two arms.

Yes—as I drop you on the garbage-heap,

Tiny crushed glutton, I half envy you.