Bliss Carman, et al., eds. The World’s Best Poetry. 1904.
IV. PeaceThe Day is Coming
William Morris (18341896)C
for a tale there is to tell,
Of the wonderful days a-coming,
when all shall be better than well.
a land in the midst of the sea,
And folk shall call it England
in the days that are going to be.
in the days that are yet to come,
Shall have some hope of the morrow,
some joy of the ancient home.
to this strange tale of mine—
All folk that are in England
shall be better lodged than swine.
and rejoice in the deeds of his hand;
Nor yet come home in the even
too faint and weary to stand.
shall work and have no fear
For to-morrow’s lack of earning,
and the hunger-Wolf anear.
that no man then shall be glad
Of his fellow’s fall and mishap,
to snatch at the work he had.
shall then be his indeed,
Nor shall half be reaped for nothing
by him that sowed no seed.
But for whom shall we gather the gain?
For ourselves and for each of our fellows,
and no hand shall labor in vain.
and no more shall any man crave
For riches that serve for nothing
but to fetter a friend for a slave.
when none shall gather gold
To buy his friend in the market,
and pinch and pine the sold?
and the little house on the hill,
And the wastes and the woodland beauty,
and the happy fields we till;
the tombs of the mighty dead;
And the wise men seeking out marvels,
and the poet’s teeming head;
and the marvellous fiddle-bow,
And the banded choirs of music:
all those that do and know.
nor shall any lack a share
Of the toil and the gain of living,
in the days when the world grows fair.
But what are the deeds of to-day,
In the days of the years we dwell in,
that wear our lives away?
There are three words to speak:
We will it, and what is the foeman
but the dream-strong wakened and weak?
while our brothers droop and die,
And on every wind of the heavens
a wasted life goes by?
where crowd on crowd they dwell,—
Poor ghosts of the wicked city,
the gold-crushed hungry hell?
in sordid grief they died,—
Those sons of a mighty mother,
those props of England’s pride.
nor save our souls from the curse:
But many a million cometh,
and shall they be better or worse?
and open wide the door
For the rich man’s hurrying terror,
and the slow-foot hope of the poor.
and their unlearned discontent,—
We must give it voice and wisdom
till the waiting-tide be spent.
the living and the dead,
And o’er the weltering tangle
a glimmering light is shed.
and put by ease and rest,
For the Cause alone is worthy
till the good days bring the best.
wherein no man can fail,
Where whoso fadeth and dieth,
yet his deed shall still prevail.
for this, at least, we know:
That the dawn and the day is coming,
and forth the banners go.