A man said to the universe: "Sir, I exist!" "However," replied the universe, "The fact has not created in me A sense of obligation."

When the prophet, a complacent fat man, Arrived at the mountain-top, He cried: "Woe to my knowledge! I intended to see good white lands And bad black lands, But the scene is grey."

There was a land where lived no violets. A traveller at once demanded: "Why?" The people told him: "Once the violets of this place spoke thus: 'Until some woman freely gives her lover To another woman We will fight in bloody scuffle.'" Sadly the people added: "There are no violets here."

Ay, workman, make me a dream, A dream for my love. Cunningly weave sunlight, Breezes, and flowers. Let it be of the cloth of meadows. And -- good workman -- And let there be a man walking thereon.

Each small gleam was a voice, A lantern voice -- In little songs of carmine, violet, green, gold. A chorus of colours came over the water; The wondrous leaf-shadow no longer wavered, No pines crooned on the hills, The blue night was elsewhere a silence, When the chorus of colours came over the water, Little songs of carmine, violet, green, gold. Small glowing pebbles Thrown on the dark plane of evening Sing good ballads of God And eternity, with soul's rest. Little priests, little holy fathers, None can doubt the truth of your hymning, When the marvellous chorus comes over the water, Songs of carmine, violet, green, gold.

The trees in the garden rained flowers. Children ran there joyously. They gathered the flowers Each to himself. Now there were some Who gathered great heaps -- Having opportunity and skill -- Until, behold, only chance blossoms Remained for the feeble. Then a little spindling tutor Ran importantly to the father, crying: "Pray, come hither! See this unjust thing in your garden!" But when the father had surveyed, He admonished the tutor: "Not so, small sage! This thing is just. For, look you, Are not they who possess the flowers Stronger, bolder, shrewder Than they who have none? Why should the strong -- The beautiful strong -- Why should they not have the flowers?" Upon reflection, the tutor bowed to the ground, "My lord," he said, "The stars are displaced By this towering wisdom."

When a people reach the top of a hill, Then does God lean toward them, Shortens tongues and lengthens arms. A vision of their dead comes to the weak. The moon shall not be too old Before the new battalions rise,         Blue battalions. The moon shall not be too old When the children of change shall fall Before the new battalions,         The blue battalions. Mistakes and virtues will be trampled deep. A church and a thief shall fall together. A sword will come at the bidding of the eyeless, The God-led, turning only to beckon,     Swinging a creed like a censer     At the head of the new battalions,         Blue battalions.     March the tools of nature's impulse,     Men born of wrong, men born of right,     Men of the new battalions,         The blue battalions. The clang of swords is Thy wisdom, The wounded make gestures like Thy Son's; The feet of mad horses is one part -- Ay, another is the hand of a mother on the brow of a youth.     Then, swift as they charge through a shadow,     The men of the new battalions,         Blue battalions --     God lead them high, God lead them far,     God lead them far, God lead them high,     These new battalions,         The blue battalions.