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from Not palaces, an era’s crown 

Not palaces, an era’s crown
Where the mind dwells, intrigues, rests;
The architectural gold-leaved flower
From people ordered like a single mind,
I build.  This only what I tell:
It is too late for rare accumulation
For family pride, for beauty’s filtered dusts;
I say, stamping the words with emphasis,
Drink from here energy and only energy,
As from the electric charge of a battery.
To will this Time’s change. ……

Leave your gardens, your singing feasts,
Your dreams of suns circling before our sun.
Of heaven after our world.
Instead, watch images of flashing brass
That strike the outward sense, the polished will
Flag of our purpose which the wind engraves
No spirit seek here rest.  But this:  No man
Shall hunger:  Manshall spend equally
Our goal which we compel
Man shall be man.

That programme of the antique Satan
Bristling with guns on the indented page
With battleship towering from hilly waves;
For what? Drive of a ruining purpose
Destroying all but its age-long exploiters.
Our programme like this, yet opposite,
Death to the killers, bringing Light to life.