Selections from POMPEY THE GREAT

Man is a sacred city, built of marvellous earth. Life was lived nobly here to give this body birth. Something was in this brain and in this eager hand. Death is so dumb and blind, Death cannot understand. Death drifts the brain with dust and soils the young limbs’ glory. Death makes women a dream and men a traveller’s story, Death drives the lovely soul to wander under the sky, Death opens unknown doors. It is most grand to die.

Kneel to the beautiful women who bear us this strange brave fruit. Man with his soul so noble: man half god and half brute. Women bear him in pain that he may bring them tears. He is a king on earth, he rules for a term of years. And the conqueror’s prize is dust and lost endeavour. And the beaten man becomes a story for ever. For the gods employ strange means to bring their will to be. We are in the wise gods’ hands and more we cannot see.

And all their passionate hearts are dust, And dust the great idea that burned In various flames of love and lust Till the world’s brain was turned. God, moving darkly in men’s brains, Using their passions as his tool, Brings freedom with a tyrant’s chains And wisdom with the fool. Blindly and bloodily we drift, Our interests clog our hearts with dreams, God make my brooding soul a rift Through which a meaning gleams.