The lid flew off, and all the desolations,

As through a roaring poet’s shameless throat,

Poured out their lamentations.

It seemed somewhere they were trying to take a vote

That in the hurry and din was never taken,

For not one wrong was shaken.

And all as stupid and sad

As a cashiered and spavined army of horse

Charging behind their false archaic neigh

At a fantastical force

Ten thousand mules or years away;

Or as a tribe who having lost their tongue

Could find no articulate word to say,

Having forgotten what was fresh and young:

All so debased by time it was almost mad.

We were assembled for some ceremony,

Compelled to this music, forced to hear.

But as we listened insidious memory,

The secret spy within the ear,

Whispered, “This is your speech, this is the rune

You never read; this is your oldest tune.”

At which we cried, “Push, push it back under the ground.

We will not listen. We

Will not endure that sound,”

And in the clamour could not hear a voice

That calmly said, “Rejoice.”