I am of the
terrible
people, I am of the strange Hebrews.
American Poetry - 1922
.
.
.
I go about with a dark heart where the Ages sit in a divine
thunder. . . .
My blood is cymbal-clashed and the anklets of the dancers tinkle
there. . . .
Harp and psaltery, harp and psaltery make drunk my spirit. . . .
I am of the terrible people, I am of the strange Hebrews. . . .
Amongst the swarms fixed like the rooted stars, my folk is a
streaming Comet,
Comet of the Asian tiger-darkness,
The Wanderer of Eternity, the eternal Wandering Jew. . . .
Ho! we have turned against the mightiest of our young men
And in that denial we have taken on the Christ,
And the two thieves beside the Christ,
And the Magdalen at the feet of the Christ,
And the Judas with thirty silver pieces selling the Christ,--
And our twenty centuries in Europe have the shape of a Cross
On which we have hung in disaster and glory. . . .
Mighty race! mighty race! --my flesh, my flesh
Is a cup of song,
Is a well in Asia.
I go about with a dark heart where the Ages sit in a divine
thunder. . . .
My blood is cymbal-clashed and the anklets of the dancers tinkle
there. . . .
Harp and psaltery, harp and psaltery make drunk my spirit. . . .
I am of the terrible people, I am of the strange Hebrews. . . .
Amongst the swarms fixed like the rooted stars, my folk is a
streaming Comet,
Comet of the Asian tiger-darkness,
The Wanderer of Eternity, the eternal Wandering Jew. . . .
Ho! we have turned against the mightiest of our young men
And in that denial we have taken on the Christ,
And the two thieves beside the Christ,
And the Magdalen at the feet of the Christ,
And the Judas with thirty silver pieces selling the Christ,--
And our twenty centuries in Europe have the shape of a Cross
On which we have hung in disaster and glory. . . .
Mighty race! mighty race! --my flesh, my flesh
Is a cup of song,
Is a well in Asia.
