Poetry Archives

The World is ours till sunset,
  Holly and fire and snow;
And the name of our dead brother
  Who loved us long ago.

The grown folk mighty and cunning,
  They write his name in gold;
But we can tell a little
  Of the million tales he told.

He taught them laws and watchwords,
  To preach and struggle and pray;
But he taught us deep in the hayfield
  The games that the angels play.

Had he stayed here for ever,
  Their world would be wise as ours—
And the king be cutting capers,
  And the priest be picking flowers.

But the dark day came: they gathered:
  On their faces we could see
They had taken and slain our brother,
  And hanged him on a tree.