Not of the princess and prelates with periwigged charioteers? Riding triumphantly laurelled to lap the fat of the years? Rather the scorned- the rejected- the men hemmed in with spears;
The men in tattered battalion which fights till it dies? Dazed with the dust of the battle, the din and the cries? The men with broken heads and the blood running into their eyes.
Not the be-medaled Commander, beloved of the throne? Riding cock-horse to parade when the bugles are blown? But the lads who carried the hill and cannot be known.
Others may sing of the wine and the wealth and the mirth? The portly presence of potentates goodly in girth; Mine be the dirt and the dross the dust and the scum of the earth!
Theirs be the music the colour, the glory, the gold? Mine be a handful of ashes, a mouthful of mould? Of the maimed of the halt and the blind in the rain and the cold-
Of these shall my songs be fashioned, my tale be told. Amen
-John Masefield, “A Consecration”
P.S. Check out http://7months1word.blogspot.com my newest blog chronicling my journey through the Bible.
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