Someone at the Door

THAT’S Barbarism’s knock. I knew he’d come,
And felt he might arrive at any time.
Christendom’s fading out like heathendom
“And beauty making beautiful old rhyme.”
Sick arts grow weaker, and tremendous sciences,
Whose wonders made us gulp and catch our breath,
Now provide satisfactory appliances
Which magnify inevitable death.
And thus the young can die a great deal younger,
In greater numbers, and with more passivity,
Of hope deferred, pestilence, sorrow, hunger,
And viewless shots of radioactivity.
All gracious thought is an anachronism.
“Come in! Come in! Good morning, Barbarism.