 | The Collected Poems of T. W. H. Crosland |  |
119
The Riddle
Through a glass darkly I can see
Slaves, in whose blood ran liberty;
Slaves, in whose blood ran liberty;
Creatures of anguish, fear and wrong,
Abject of eye, furtive of tongue;
Abject of eye, furtive of tongue;
Whose joy hath taken wings and flown,
Whose strength no longer is their own;
Whose strength no longer is their own;
Whose high tower toppled to the dust,
Whose silk and steel are moth and rust;
Whose silk and steel are moth and rust;
Whose name is water and shall be
A byword and a mockery;
A byword and a mockery;
Who eat the portion of the thrall,
Whose drink is vinegar and gall;
Whose drink is vinegar and gall;
Whose flesh doth suffer whip and rope,
Whose children's children may not hope;
Whose children's children may not hope;
Upon whose fetters chuckling Fate
Hath set her scornful mark “Too late.”
Hath set her scornful mark “Too late.”
120
And on whose brows that fronted God
The leering Beast writes “Ichabod.”
The leering Beast writes “Ichabod.”
Read you the riddle: who are these
So naked to their enemies—
So naked to their enemies—
And so possessed of their old phlegm
That one shall safely spit on them?
That one shall safely spit on them?
I will not tell you who they are;
It is enough—They lost the war.
It is enough—They lost the war.
| The Collected Poems of T. W. H. Crosland | |