The poem below was written in the late 1930s by my father when he was an undergraduate student.
Vocation?
My friend, upon the world that lies below,
Now, look, this night, and think of all it knows.
The shrieks of sunlit sounds have passed away.
All joy in life is here at end of day.
A song we’ve sung; a prayer we’ve said; the crowd
Dissolved; the night is here; our faith we’ve vowed.
Today a politician’s pimple broke
And shot its friendly filth on simple folk.
The statistician raved and said we might
All be extinct before the fall of night.
The dietitian thought we could not live
Without the vitamins she had to give,
That clean and purge and make men strong. She said
The children were obnoxious if well fed.
The politicians, statisticians, too
Know only of the Lilliputians’ view.
Perhaps they’ve never thought at end of day,
When shrieks of sunlit sounds have passed away
That there is not abidance in the facts
When they alone administrate our acts.
Perhaps they’ve never felt the warmth of night
That mitigates all aching in its light
Or seen the hills that lie around their town
And heard their deathless call to eyes cast down,
“Lift up unto the hills. There find the source
Of power, strength, tenacity and force.”
Tonight, my friend, we think of life ahead.
We see some bodies ache, some minds ‘most dead.
Let’s go awake their minds, relieve the pain
Of Lilliputian views that never gain
For them a favoured hour at end of day
When shrieks of sunlit sounds have passed away.
