History has tongues
Has angels has guns--has saved has praised--
Achievements of her exiles long returned
Now no more rootless, for whom her printed page
Glazes their bruised waste years in one
Balancing present sky.
See how her dead, like standards
Unfurled upon their shore, are cupped by waves:
The laurelled exiles, kneeling to kiss these sands.
Number there freedom's friends. One who
Within the element of endless summer,
Like leaf in amber, petrified by light,
Studied the root of action. One in a garret
Read books as though he broke up flints. Some met
In back rooms with hot red plush hangings,
And all outside the snow of foreign tongues.
One, a poet, went babbling like a fountain
Through parks. All were jokes to children.
All had the pale unshaven stare of shuttered plants
Exposed to a too violent sun.