I sat amidst the clouds ere dawn
Upon a mountain’s head.
The wind was null, the clouds were close-drawn,
And no path to me led.
Then came a tremor through my toes,
And far down, failure’s shots;
The last bad men had come to blows
While I sat there forgot.
I pulled from pocket alien page
And read these words stamped on:
“The poets are of dead, lost age
And shall not see the dawn.”
Then up I stood and hollered loud;
Loud hollers back I heard.
From every peak came voices proud
In one heroic word!
“I!” and “I!” and “I!” out-rang
From hearts and minds yet whole!
More loud and proud I sang and sang,
“All praise to self-made soul!”
Then down each cloudy mountain height
Those radiant poets came
To strike through night man’s re-born light
That knows no guilt or shame!
That paper worn was torn to flakes—
Shred waste-ings of the dead!
The worst of bad men’s bad mistakes
Now damned beneath my tread!