Suffer, sad earth; no pain can equal thine:
Thy giant heart must ever be a shrine
For all the sorrows of Humanity.
As one by one the stricken ages die,
The bright beams of the stars are turned to tears,
And howling winds that whistle down the years
Sigh "Sorrow, sorrow, sorrow!" and are gone
Into the silence of oblivion.
Suffer, great world; the poison fangs of Death
Can only wound, not kill thee.... Lo! the breath
Of everlasting dawn is in the wind;
The distant throbbing of a giant Mind
Shall set the music of the Universe
Once more in time--with harmony coerce
The discord of a warring race to cease
And sorrow die within the arms of peace.
Thwaites spent his guinea almost entirely on tuck, and though he was
very generous with it, and shared the grub with the competitors Rice and
Sutherland minor, who were his friends, he still kept enough to make
himself ill again. For it was one of the unlucky things about Thwaites
that any muck really worth eating always bowled him over. He wrote a
poem three times as long as his War poem, called "Effect of Cocoanut
Rock on the Tummy of Thwaites"; but Dunston wouldn't have purred much
over that.