The Falsifiers of Mythology

You ask to have the Children's souls, in pledge
That these shall only bear your kind of fruit,
Who are but dead sticks in the living hedge,
Kotten from lack of root!

Let England lift her hand to scratch her head
Consideringly, Your hold's not worth a pin
Who are dead scuf outside the skull, instead
Of living brain within!

dedication to the "natural
genesis:'

At times I had to tread
Where not a Star was found
To lead or light me, overhead;

Nor footprint on the ground.

I toiled among the sands
And stumbled with my feet;
Or crawled and climbed with knees and hands
Some future path to beat.

Dedication To The "NATURAL GENESIS." 113
I had to feel the flow
Of waters whelming me:
No foothold to be touched below,
No shore around to see.

Yet, in my darkest night,
And farthest drift from land,
There dawned within the guiding light;

I felt the unseen hand.

Year after year went by,
And watchers wondered when
The diver, to their welcoming cry
Of joy, would rise again.

And still rolled on Time's wave
That whitened as it passed:
The ground is getting toward the grave
That I have reached at last.

Child after child would say —
" Ah, when his work is done,
Father will come with us and play — "
'Tis done. But Play-time's gone.

A willing slave for years,
I strove to set men free;
Mine were the Labours, Hopes, and Fears,
Be theirs the Victory.