It's the same in the high street and jungle;
Axiomatic in all moral crowds;
Free folk are entirely humble
And none are entirely proud.
In their marching there's six steps of stumble
For every proud pace they're allowed.
They know more of their destination
Than the sergeants who harry them on
With their spider-web revelations
And their homespun aetherial sing.
Their officer corps is lamentably poor,
For all the life-giving sport of the pricely sort
Is to bury their blame in a thousand solemn ways
In enumerable graves maintained by slaves.
The myriad folk who lie there too
All hoped that they would rise anew,
But could not stir if a trumpet blew.
Few in that myriad have understood
That salvation springs from the common good.