We have thought long enough and talked long enough
And the world is weary of words.
And the sword is clockwork now –
A sullen wheel of swords.
Like sickening steams before the sun
The fumes of culture creep –
And the wise men laugh more sadly
Than the strong man used to weep.
And I know that clouds are alive and cling
And the dusty path is rough
But I know that the least grain of the dust
Has never been praised enough.
A single grain of the drifting dust,
If we took it and loved it well,
We could blow the trumpet North and South
And fight with the world and hell
And find the truth of an ancient thing
Lost in the oldest lyre.
It was the man who burnt his ships
Who set the Thames on fire.