In the Battle
Often, in the slow ages long retreat
On Life’s thin ridge through Time’s enormous sea,
I have accepted death and borne defeat
To gain some vantage by my fall for Thee.
For Thou has given the Inconscient the dark right
To oppose the shining passage of my soul
And levy at each step the tax of night:
Doom, her august accountant, keeps the roll.
All around me now the Titan forces press;
This world is theirs, they hold its days in fee;
I am full of wounds and the fight merciless.
Is it not Thy hour victory?
Even as Thou wilt! What still to Fate Thou owest,
O Ancient of the worlds, Thou knowest, Thou knowest.
The Iron Dictators
I looked for Thee alone, but met my glance
The iron dreadful Four who rule our breath,
Masters of falsehood, Kings of ignorance,
High sovereign Lords of suffering and death.
Whence came these formidable autarchies,
From what inconscient blind infinity, –
Cold propagandists of a million lies,
Dictators of a world of agony?
Or was it Thou who bor’st the fourfold mask?
Enveloping Thy timeless heart in Time,
Thou has bound the spirit to its cosmic task,
To find Thee veiled in this tremendous mime.
Thou, only Thou canst raise the invincible seige,
O Light, O deathless Joy, O rapturous Peace!