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.