The Kings Go By With Jewled Crowns; Their Horses Gleam, Their Banners Shake, Their Spears Are Many. The Sack Of Many-Peopled Towns Is All Their Dream: The Way They Take Leaves But A Ruin In The Brake, And, In The Furrow That The Plowmen Make, A Stampless Penny, A Tale, A Dream. The Merchants Reckon Up Their Gold, Their Letters Come, Their Ships Arrive, Their Freights Are Glories; The Profits Of Their Treasures Sold They Tell And Sum; Their Foremen Drive Their Servants, Starved To Half-Alive, Whose Labors Do But Make The Earth A Hive Of Stinking Stories; A Tale, A Dream. The Priests Are Singing In Their Stalls, Their Singing Lifts, Their Incense Burns, Their Praying Clamors; Yet God Is As The Sparrow Falls, The Ivy Drifts; The Votive Urns Are All Left Void When Fortune Turns, The God Is But A Marble For The Kerns To Break With Hammers; A Tale, A Dream. O Beauty, Let Me Know Again The Green Earth Cold, The April Rain, The Quiet Waters Figuring Sky, The One Star Risen. So Shall I Pass Into The Feast Not Touched By King, Merchant, Or Priest; Know The Red Spirit Of The Beast, Be The Green Grain; Escape From Prison.