On the desert A silence from the moon's deepest valley. Fire rays fall athwart the robes Of hooded men, squat and dumb. Before them, a woman Moves to the blowing of shrill whistles And distant thunder of drums, While mystic things, sinuous, dull with terrible colour, Sleepily fondle her body Or move at her will, swishing stealthily over the sand. The snakes whisper softly; The whispering, whispering snakes, Dreaming and swaying and staring, But always whispering, softly whispering. The wind streams from the lone reaches Of Arabia, solemn with night, And the wild fire makes shimmer of blood Over the robes of the hooded men Squat and dumb. Bands of moving bronze, emerald, yellow, Circle the throat and the arms of her, And over the sands serpents move warily Slow, menacing and submissive, Swinging to the whistles and drums, The whispering, whispering snakes, Dreaming and swaying and staring, But always whispering, softly whispering. The dignity of the accursed; The glory of slavery, despair, death, Is in the dance of the whispering snakes.

A newspaper is a collection of half-injustices Which, bawled by boys from mile to mile, Spreads its curious opinion To a million merciful and sneering men, While families cuddle the joys of the fireside When spurred by tale of dire lone agony. A newspaper is a court Where every one is kindly and unfairly tried By a squalor of honest men. A newspaper is a market Where wisdom sells its freedom And melons are crowned by the crowd. A newspaper is a game Where his error scores the player victory While another's skill wins death. A newspaper is a symbol; It is feckless life's chronicle, A collection of loud tales Concentrating eternal stupidities, That in remote ages lived unhaltered, Roaming through a fenceless world.

The wayfarer, Perceiving the pathway to truth, Was struck with astonishment. It was thickly grown with weeds. "Ha," he said, "I see that none has passed here In a long time." Later he saw that each weed Was a singular knife. "Well," he mumbled at last, "Doubtless there are other roads."

A slant of sun on dull brown walls, A forgotten sky of bashful blue. Toward God a mighty hymn, A song of collisions and cries, Rumbling wheels, hoof-beats, bells, Welcomes, farewells, love-calls, final moans, Voices of joy, idiocy, warning, despair, The unknown appeals of brutes, The chanting of flowers, The screams of cut trees, The senseless babble of hens and wise men -- A cluttered incoherency that says at the stars: "O God, save us!"

Once a man clambering to the housetops Appealed to the heavens. With strong voice he called to the deaf spheres; A warrior's shout he raised to the suns. Lo, at last, there was a dot on the clouds, And -- at last and at last -- -- God -- the sky was filled with armies.

There was a man with tongue of wood Who essayed to sing, And in truth it was lamentable. But there was one who heard The clip-clapper of this tongue of wood And knew what the man Wished to sing, And with that the singer was content.

The successful man has thrust himself Through the water of the years, Reeking wet with mistakes -- Bloody mistakes; Slimed with victories over the lesser, A figure thankful on the shore of money. Then, with the bones of fools He buys silken banners Limned with his triumphant face; With the skins of wise men He buys the trivial bows of all. Flesh painted with marrow Contributes a coverlet, A coverlet for his contented slumber. In guiltless ignorance, in ignorant guilt, He delivered his secrets to the riven multitude. "Thus I defended: Thus I wrought." Complacent, smiling, He stands heavily on the dead. Erect on a pillar of skulls He declaims his trampling of babes; Smirking, fat, dripping, He makes speech in guiltless ignorance, Innocence.

In the night Grey heavy clouds muffled the valleys, And the peaks looked toward God alone. "O Master that movest the wind with a finger, Humble, idle, futile peaks are we. Grant that we may run swiftly across the world To huddle in worship at Thy feet." In the morning A noise of men at work came the clear blue miles, And the little black cities were apparent. "O Master that knowest the meaning of raindrops, Humble, idle, futile peaks are we. Give voice to us, we pray, O Lord, That we may sing Thy goodness to the sun." In the evening The far valleys were sprinkled with tiny lights. "O Master, Thou that knowest the value of kings and birds, Thou hast made us humble, idle futile peaks. Thou only needest eternal patience; We bow to Thy wisdom, O Lord -- Humble, idle, futile peaks." In the night Grey heavy clouds muffled the valleys, And the peaks looked toward God alone.

The chatter of a death-demon from a tree-top Blood -- blood and torn grass -- Had marked the rise of his agony -- This lone hunter. The grey-green woods impassive Had watched the threshing of his limbs. A canoe with flashing paddle, A girl with soft searching eyes, A call: "John!" . . . . . Come, arise, hunter! Can you not hear? The chatter of a death-demon from a tree-top.

The impact of a dollar upon the heart Smiles warm red light, Sweeping from the hearth rosily upon the white table, With the hanging cool velvet shadows Moving softly upon the door. The impact of a million dollars Is a crash of flunkeys, And yawning emblems of Persia Cheeked against oak, France and a sabre, The outcry of old beauty Whored by pimping merchants To submission before wine and chatter. Silly rich peasants stamp the carpets of men, Dead men who dreamed fragrance and light Into their woof, their lives; The rug of an honest bear Under the feet of a cryptic slave Who speaks always of baubles, Forgetting state, multitude, work, and state, Champing and mouthing of hats, Making ratful squeak of hats, Hats.