The Violent: New Poems

The Violent: New Poems

The Violent: New Poems

The Violent: New Poems



THE high great fools have reasoned that

The world is marvelously full

Of sense grown insolent and tall

And sight gone impotent and dull

With staring overlong at thought,

And placing bars about the pole

That tells the distance to the soul.

So, taking sense to be their guide

And God to be our tragedy,

They use all honor as a goad

To urge the way to ecstasy,

And so divine that all true good

Has risen from armed mockery

Of all not based on immorality.

Their way is kept by common kings

Who lead mad armies of despair

To a richer Croesus' funeral pyre,

Whose flames will burst the utter air

When all the beating of the gongs

Has brought them to the final level

That usurps dust and does with devil.

Over poor passes of the mind

The parade proceeds; and engines break

The country ruled by claw and beak,

And crack the ruin that they make

Into a wreck that cannot mend,

Though late logicians erect

A broken Forum that we may respect.

And Soul's a valley that is held

Within the iron arms of sense,

That take, and leave no evidence

That could confound the lately-felled

Who climbed the arms and only found

Faith wanting on the highest ground,

And all intelligence a wound.

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