The Great War

from Poems, an electronic edition

The Journeyman

NOT baser than his own homekeeping kind

Whose journeyman he is--

Blind sons and breastless daughters of the blind

Whose darkness pardons his,--

About the world, while all the world approves,

The pimp of Fashion steals,

With all the angels mourning their dead loves

Behind his bloody heels.

It may be late when Nature cries


As one day cry she will,

And man may have the wit to put her off

With shifts a season still;

But man may find the pinch importunate

And fall to blaming men--

Blind sires and breastless mothers of his fate,

It may be late and may be very late,

Too late for blaming then.