The March of the Black Mountain 1913

What will there be to remember
  Of us in the days to be?
Whose faith was a trodden ember
  And even our doubt not free;
Parliaments built of paper,
  And the soft swords of gold
That twist like a waxen taper
  In the weak aggressor's hold;
A hush around Hunger, slaying
  A city of serfs unfed;
What shall we leave for a saying
  To praise us when we are dead?
But men shall remember the Mountain
  That broke its forest chains,
And men shall remember the Mountain
  When it arches against the plains:
And christen their children from it
  And season and ship and street,
When the Mountain came to Mahomet
  And looked small before his feet.

His head was as high as the crescent
  Of the moon that seemed his crown,
And on glory of past and present
  The light of his eyes looked down;
One hand went out to the morning
  Over Brahmin and Buddhist slain,
And one to the West in scorning
  To point at the scars of Spain;
One foot on the hills for warden
  By the little Mountain trod;
And one was in a garden
  And stood on the grave of God.
But men shall remember the Mountain,
  Though it fall down like a tree,
They shall see the sign of the Mountain
  Faith cast into the sea;
Though the crooked swords overcome it
  And the Crooked Moon ride free,
When the Mountain comes to Mahomet
  It has more life than he.

But what will there be to remember
  Or what will there be to see--
Though our towns through a long November
  Abide to the end and be?
Strength of slave and mechanic
  Whose iron is ruled by gold,
Peace of immortal panic,
  Love that is hate grown cold--
Are these a bribe or a warning
  That we turn not to the sun,
Nor look on the lands of morning
  Where deeds at last are done?
Where men shall remember the Mountain
  When truth forgets the plain--
And walk in the way of the Mountain
  That did not fail in vain;
Death and eclipse and comet,
  Thunder and seals that rend:
When the Mountain came to Mahomet;
  Because it was the end.