Perhaps in the future all journalists may be trained to this degree of cunning, and then, perhaps before the end of time, they may sicken even the average man with smartness in verse.
Strangest of all, this lover of beauty and this captive of momentary effect have been once at least fused consciously and inextricably in a single poem, a successful poem.
THE BUGLER
God dreamed a man;
Then, having firmly shut
Life like a precious metal in his fist
Withdrew, His labour done. Thus did begin
Our various divinity and sin.
For some to ploughshares did the metal twist,
And others—dreaming empires—straightway cut
Crowns for their aching foreheads. Others beat
Long nails and heavy hammers for the feet
Of their forgotten Lord. (Who dares to boast
That he is guiltless?) Others coined it: most
Did with it—simply nothing. (Here again
Who cries his innocence?) Yet doth remain
Metal unmarred, to each man more or less,
Whereof to fashion perfect loveliness.
For me, I do but bear within my hand
(For sake of Him our Lord, now long forsaken)
A simple bugle such as may awaken
With one high morning note a drowsing man:
That wheresoe'er within my motherland
The sound may come, 'twill echo far and wide
Like pipes of battle calling up a clan,
Trumpeting men through beauty to God's side.
Second thoughts are best, and this seems made entirely of first thoughts; images, attitude, everything; and yet it is inevitably shaped to a whole that is itself throughout. The mad passion for beauty can do so much even with
