Something gone wrong is news to no one now,

But what were we making of ourselves so long?

We thought our days were gold beads tightly strung.

Why do we say instead, "We have our work."?

Harden the hand, yes, to heave up rock,

To set rock in the gap where life and time

Are leaking away. Yes, harden the fist, too,

And strike down hinderers of the work we do.

But admit we had a sweet hope once; revive

That image of the way we meant to live,

And see how wrong we were from the very first.

We did not know the earth would not be moist

And green with truth, but dry between the rains.

We did not know what hatred fools can feel,

Nor see the blood of murder done with stones.

We did not take the short and shuffling step,

Nor hear the mumble-bumble words in books,

Nor have the fear of age. We did not guess

To be grown man was this. We did not know-

And I say young men, unwary, never knew-

That our elders look each other in the face

And lie, and say, "But none of this is true. . . ."