Swords that clang sharp on heaven’s anvil, white 
With heat of God’s own forehead that beholds 
The building broken that is made of might, 
Nor builded firm on justice’ iron height, 
Nor is not cast in mercy’s sliver mould :— 
Swords sharp to slay, when vengeance must its fill 
Drink of the bloody rill 
Wherein men lave their mouths, arise and smite and kill. 
 
Listen all lands, and wonder !  For the night 
Rolls back her beaten iron, and the day 
Breaks, and the passionate heralds of the light, 
Armoured with love for panoply of might, 
Rush on the portals of the falling way. 
The lamps of heaven are dim while swords strike fire 
From rocks whose crests burn higher :— 
At their assault hell’s dogs gasp, totter, and expire 
 
All the gold gates are open of the East ; 
The rugged columns of the hills uphold 
A dome of changeless turquoise, and they feast, 
The sun’s lips, on the woods that have increased 
Since dawn with store of unimagined gold. 
The steam of many exhalations fair 
Sweetens the midday air ; 
Echo and tree and bud chant and give birth and bear.
 
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