Random Poem

• Salvage (Carl Sandburg)
  
  Guns on the battle lines have pounded now a year
  between Brussels and Paris.
  And, William Morris, when I read your old chapter on
  the great arches and naves and little whimsical
  corners of the Churches of Northern France--Brr-rr!
  I'm glad you're a dead man, William Morris, I'm glad
  you're down in the damp and mouldy, only a memory
  instead of a living man--I'm glad you're gone.
  You never lied to us, William Morris, you loved the
  shape of those stones piled and carved for you to
  dream over and wonder because workmen got joy
  of life into them,
  Workmen in aprons singing while they hammered, and
  praying, and putting their songs and prayers into
  the walls and roofs, the bastions and cornerstones
  and gargoyles--all their children and kisses of
  women and wheat and roses growing.
  I say, William Morris, I'm glad you're gone, I'm glad
  you're a dead man.
  Guns on the battle lines have pounded a year now between
  Brussels and Paris.
  
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