POSTHUMOUS POEMS
And, as in meadows where the strong flame feeds,
The land is waste and eaten to the bone
In fields of dust with ashes overblown
To where the river trembles in its reeds,
So are the churches and broad halls burnt up;
The priests and princes gathered into sheaves
And bound for burning; such a fire begins
The melting of gold pieces and gold sins,
Ill treasure-traffic, the market-place of thieves,
For whose sake God shall pour out all his cup.
The land is waste and eaten to the bone
In fields of dust with ashes overblown
To where the river trembles in its reeds,
So are the churches and broad halls burnt up;
The priests and princes gathered into sheaves
And bound for burning; such a fire begins
The melting of gold pieces and gold sins,
Ill treasure-traffic, the market-place of thieves,
For whose sake God shall pour out all his cup.
Oxford.
86
