To Certain Men of Science

O carrion-eaters, O presumptuous ones, Why do you loot old tombs, expound at length On archeology, dissolve the stones In acid that will catalogue their strength, And gleaming white on antiseptic tiles Marshal the elements in stoppered vials?

Is it unrest or fear that makes you pry Among moon-mountains in the depth of night, Where pards on padded feet go silently Ranging their shadow-paths beyond the light? Pan rocks with quiet laugh when he hears The arrogant words that reach his pointed ears.

You prod dumb flesh with steel, immensely wise, Cock your pert heads, pretend to unravel all The scheme of the universe, while madly flies Some swift invisible presence round the wall, Like a grey moth trembling to be free To wing to the borders of eternity.

Blind charlatans with vacuous smiling faces, Implacable smug masks,—robes starched and white, Know you that beauty like a flame embraces The sun, ignorant of how far its light Flings across space, and flowers unaware How many roots they have to hold them there.

Science is cold, astronomy has been dead Since the last Grecian lad deep in the grass Fell sprawling, and threw back his curly head To count the stars, and watch a meteor pass Down the night sky, trailing its fiery plume Proud and beautiful in the arms of doom.

(First printed in the "Five Arts," 1930)