So he plotted in his rage: So he deals it, age by age. But even as he roared his curse a still small Voice befell; Lo, a still and pleasant voice bade them none the less rejoice, For the Brute must bring the good time on; he has no other choice. He may struggle, sweat, and yell, but he knows exceeding well He must work them out salvation ere they send him back to hell.
All the desert that he made He must treble bless with shade, In primal wastes set precious seed of rapture and of pain; All the strongholds that he built For the powers of greed and guilt-- He must strew their bastions down the sea and choke their towers with silt; He must make the temples clean for the gods to come again, And lift the lordly cities under skies without a stain.
In a very cunning tether He must lead the tyrant weather; He must loose the curse of Adam from the worn neck of the race; He must cast out hate and fear, Dry away each fruitless tear, And make the fruitful tears to gush from the deep heart and clear. He must give each man his portion, each his pride and worthy place; He must batter down the arrogant and lift the weary face, On each vile mouth set purity, on each low forehead grace.
Then, perhaps, at the last day, They will whistle him away, Lay a hand upon his muzzle in the face of God, and say, "Honor, Lord, the Thing we tamed! Let him not be scourged or blamed. Even through his wrath and fierceness was thy fierce wroth world reclaimed! Honor Thou thy servants' servant; let thy justice now be shown." Then the Lord will heed their saying, and the Brute come to his own, 'Twixt the Lion and the Eagle, by the armpost of the Throne.
Thank God my brain is not inclined to cut Such capers every day! I 'm just about Mellow, but then--There goes the tent-flap shut. Rain 's in the wind. I thought so: every snout Was twitching when the keeper turned me out.
That screaming parrot makes my blood run cold. Gabriel's trump! the big bull elephant Squeals "Rain!" to the parched herd. The monkeys scold, And jabber that it 's rain water they want. (It makes me sick to see a monkey pant.)
I 'll foot it home, to try and make believe I 'm sober. After this I stick to beer, And drop the circus when the sane folks leave. A man 's a fool to look at things too near: They look back, and begin to cut up queer.