The English Dancers -I

 

I can remember Englands best forgotten,

The grey-faced skulls, with haggard eyes blood-shotten,

The ghouls in shawls who went to spin the cotton

Clacking their patterns.

 

Often at dawn, I used to see them going

In gaslit alleys bowed against the snowing,

Bound for the mills, before the hooter blowing

Shut gates against them.

 

Awful it was to see the hungry faces

White at the gates there, clamouring for places,

Awful, anon, to us, to read the cases

Red on God’s pages.

 

Kind were their souls, heroic in despairing,

Let one but set a barrel-organ blaring

And straight they danced, forgetting all their caring,

One with the music.

 

A change has come and money thrusts no longer

The poor man down as footing to the stronger,

The souls of men are freer from the wronger

And rank as precious.

 

Fair is the soul, when to her native power

The arts and joys are added as a dower,

And strength buds green, with beauty as a flower

And Wisdom fruitlike.

 

A new day dawns, for now, from the dejected,

Starved, blackened branches, frozen and neglected,

The buds of leaves already are erected,

April is coming.

 

Beautiful England now is in the making,

After her dream her spirit is awaking,

The rose of beauty reddens for her taking,

Her young men waken.

 

Soon, all will dance, but not out of despairing,

An unwon beauty waiting for our daring

Stays to be made a rapture for our sharing,

And for the world’s joy.

 

John Masefield