The Song of the Children

The World is ours till sunset,
  Holly and fire and snow;
And the name of our dead brother
  Who loved us long ago.
The grown folk mighty and cunning,
  They write his name in gold;
But we can tell a little
  Of the million tales he told.



He taught them laws and watchwords,
  To preach and struggle and pray;
But he taught us deep in the hayfield
  The games that the angels play.
Had he stayed here for ever,
  Their world would be wise as ours--
And the king be cutting capers,
  And the priest be picking flowers.
But the dark day came: they gathered:
  On their faces we could see
They had taken and slain our brother,
  And hanged him on a tree.