We sat upon the ground and told sad stories

Of the death of kings, of love and lovers crossed,

Of cities crumbled from their Grecian glories,

And books at Alexandria burned and lost.

For children's grief we mourned, and first love faded,

For Marlowe murdered foully in his prime,

For starry vision at the last degraded-

And all the crowded cruelties of Time,

Tyrant, we said, from whom no tears can save us.

We cursed, with bitter and rebellious thought.

His heavy grasp on everything he gave us,

No matter how we pleaded, clung, and fought.

Under a ragged banner we consulted-

Time's rebels, and a price on every head-

But we were secret; vivid; we exulted,

For round us rallied all the nameless dead.