NOTES 



The Choice 



The Kings go by with jewelled crowns, 



Their horses gleam, their banners shake, their spears are many. 



The sack of many-peopled towns 



Is all their dream : 



The way they take 



Leaves but a ruin in the brake, 



And, in the furrow that the ploughmen make, 



A stampless penny ; a tale, a dream. 



The merchants reckon up their gold, 



Their letters come, their ships arrive, their freights are glories : 



The profits of their treasures sold 



They tell and sum ; 



Their foremen drive 



The servants starved to half-alive 



Whose labours do but make the earth a hive 



Of stinking stories, a tale, a dream. 



The priests are singing in their stalls, 



Their singing lifts, their incense burns, their praying clamours ; 



Yet God is as the sparrow falls ; 



The ivy drifts, 



The votive urns 



Are all left void when Fortune turns, 



The god is but a marble for the kerns 



To break with hammers ; a tale, a dream. 



O Beauty, let me know again 



The green earth cold, the April rain, the quiet waters figuring 



sky, 

 The one star risen. 

 So shall I pass into the feast 

 Not touched by King, merchant or priest, 

 Know the red spirit of the beast, 

 Be the green grain ; 

 Escape from prison. 



John Masefield, 

 482 





