-W. B. YeatsCome let us mock at the great
That had such burdens on the mind
And toiled so hard and late
To leave some monument behind,
Nor thought of the levelling wind.
Come let us mock at the wise;
With all those calendars whereon
They fixed old aching eyes,
They never saw how seasons run,
And now but gape at the sun.
Come let us mock at the good
That fancied goodness might be gay,
And sick of solitude
Might proclaim a holiday:
Wind shrieked—and where are they?
Mock mockers after that
That would not lift a hand maybe
To help good, wise or great
To bar that foul storm out, for we
Traffic in mockery.
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The Yeats pom featured here bring the following poem by W. H. Auden –– and the reverent near-parody I made of it some time ago to mind.. See if you can understand the the strong association I feel between the ramifications of today's hideous current events and Auden's poem.
_________ O What Is That Sound _________
O what is that sound which so thrills the ear
Down in the valley drumming, drumming?
Only the scarlet soldiers, dear,
The soldiers coming.
O what is that light I see flashing so clear
Over the distance brightly, brightly?
Only the sun on their weapons, dear,
As they step lightly.
O what are they doing with all that gear,
What are they doing this morning, morning?
Only their usual manoeuvres, dear,
Or perhaps a warning.
O why have they left the road down there,
Why are they suddenly wheeling, wheeling?
Perhaps a change in their orders, dear,
Why are you kneeling?
O haven't they stopped for the doctor's care,
Haven't they reined their horses, horses?
Why, they are none of them wounded, dear,
None of these forces.
O is it the parson they want, with white hair,
Is it the parson, is it, is it?
No, they are passing his gateway, dear,
Without a visit.
O it must be the farmer that lives so near.
It must be the farmer so cunning, so cunning?
They have passed the farmyard already, dear,
And now they are running.
O where are you going? Stay with me here!
Were the vows you swore deceiving, deceiving?
No, I promised to love you, dear,
But I must be leaving.
O it's broken the lock and splintered the door,
O it's the gate where they're turning, turning;
Their boots are heavy on the floor
And their eyes are burning.
W.H. Auden (1907-1973)
–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––
O yes, dear friends, it is coming, coming.
But whatever will be the source?
Will it be the Muslims, Muslims?
Or day traders at the Bourse?
We know it might be the Marxists,
The Marxists on a Pale Horse.
Perhaps it will be the false Christians
Who'd nail sinners they hate to a Cross?
Perhaps it will be the Perverts, Perverts?
The Gays who've been gathering force?
Perhaps it will be our elders, elders
Whose minds have been gathering moss?
Perhaps it will be the young lovers, lovers
Who cavort in the bracken and gorse?
O we know it is coming, coming,
But we cannot acknowledge the source.
Perhaps it might be you and me?
Yes! Who else could it be, of course?
~ FreeThinke (5/2/08)
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