away your sword, nor think to fight.
Seek not the best, the best is better hidden.
Thus need you have no fear,
No terrible delight
Shall cross your path, my dear.

Call no man foe, but never love a stranger.
Build up no plan, nor any star pursue.
Go forth with crowds; in loneliness is danger.
Thus nothing God can send,
And nothing God can do
Shall pierce your peace, my friend.

THE NEWER ZION

When I achieve the chestnut joke of dying,
When I slip through that Gate at Kensal Green,
Shall I go spoil the fantasy by prying
Behind the staging of this darling scene?

Shall I--a cast-off puppet--seek to study
The Showman who manipulates the strings,
The Hand that paints the western drop-scene ruddy,
The prosy truths of all these faery things?

Shall I--self-conscious by a glassy ocean--
Stammer strange songs amid an alien host?
Or shall I not, refusing such promotion,
Bequeath to London my contented ghost?

I will come back to my Eternal City;
Her fogs once more my countenance shall dim;
I will enliven your austere committee
With gossip gleaned among the cherubim.

By day I'll tread again the sounding mazes,
By night I'll track the moths about the Park;
My feet shall fall among the dusky daisies,
Nor break nor bruise a petal in the dark.

I will repeat old inexpensive orgies;
Drink nectar at the bun-shop in Shoreditch,
Or call for Nut-Ambrosia at St. George's,
And with a ghost-tip make the waitress rich.

My soundless feet shall fly among the runners
Through the red thunders of a Zeppelin raid,
My still voice cheer the Anti-Aircraft gunners,
The fires shall glare--but I shall cast no shade.

And if a Shadow, wading in the torrent
Of high excitement, snatch me from the riot--
(Fool that he is)--and fumble with his warrant,
And hail a hearse, and beg me to "Go quiet,"

Mocking I'll go, and he shall be postillion,
Until we reach the Keeper of the Door:
"H'm ... Benson ... Stella ... militant civilian ...
There's some mistake, we've had this soul before...."

* * * * * *

Ah, none shall keep my soul from this its Zion;
Lost in the spaces I shall hear and bless
The splendid voice of London, like a lion
Calling its lover in the wilderness.

TWO WOMEN SING

FIRST WOMAN

Oh woman--woman--woman,--
Shall I to woman be a friend?
I deal wit