Vol. 2 No. 1 - Modernist Magazines Project

TWO POEMS 88
MIDNIGHT CHANTICLEER
Clear cut as silver trumpets on the air
The thrice repeated call at midst of night :
Then silence. Was there only I to hear
The accusation : the reproach indict
A million Peters for a million Christs ?
Where was the shamed remorse : the bitter weeping ?
There were proud standards fluttering in the lists,
And silence where once cherished dust lies sleeping.
They would not heed, although a host of cocks
Should crow the world deaf at so great offence,
While the swift glibness of denial mocks
The protestations of their innocence.
And the sad bird cries on, and none will heed,
But only count their glory by their dead.