No place for ethics

In bitter hours I pace the whirling world,
Where gold and iron churn the child from dream,
And men with stone-cold faces, banners furled,
Crowd out the lamp, extinguish what might gleam.

The olden songs are trampled underfoot;
The sacred well is poisoned at its source—
What use in beauty, truth, or tender root,
When greed and silence chart their ruthless course?

Somewhere, beyond the sea’s slow, sorrowed glass,
A mother weeps as little bodies fall—
Not politics, but night that will not pass,
A blackening eclipse upon us all.

Yet voices murmur in the restless air
That blood and gold are gods whom men obey;
And those who cannot bear the world’s despair
Are swept aside, like withered leaves in May.

But I, old poet, shivering by the gate,
Still hope that conscience, like a waking swan,
Might rouse itself before it is too late—
And find in dust the dream it stood upon.

R.W.B Yeats