Hearing of the mocking surge of war,
The measured stumping of the broken trees
That rendered this our stagnant globe
At least a less unvaried swamp,
We have turned to the barren mountains,
To bare stone brooding hot or chill over valleys,
We have studied the amoral silence of the snows.
These are real, factual as the unpaid rent or scraping
Of the weed-clothed ships of unknown magnates
In the dry dock.

We have toiled in the mountains,
Battled round the sudden waterfall,
The sullen precipice, and through
The mist-choked passes, fought
The hungry glitter of the ice.
We have moulded to our hands
Our eyes our limbs our sense
The hidden drop beyond the bend,
The blinding darkness in
The intensive lacing of the bush.
These have become our slaves, children of our purpose.

Thus shall we drain the swamps
And cast the golden grain,
Thus shall be reborn
The shattered contour of the brain
Beneath the hammer of the heart:
For this we know—
We have dispossessed the hidden Mind,
Earth-shaped, moulders of the earth tomorrow,
Who learnt her ways in many seasons.

K.J.H.