Poetry Archives

On must we go: we search dead leaves,
  We chase the sunset’s saddest flames,
The nameless hues that o’er and o’er
  In lawless wedding lost their names.

God of the daybreak! Better be
  Black savages; and grin to gird
Our limbs in gaudy rags of red,
  The laughing-stock of brute and bird;

And feel again the fierce old feast,
  Blue for seven heavens that had sufficed,
A gold like shining hoards, a red
  Like roses from the blood of Christ.