Where Now the Beauty?

Rushing madly towards its own death-bed

The world in violent anger moves

It hearkens not to the thunderous tread

Of the Rider and the trampling hooves.

Violence hanging like a bloody shroud

Upon the present's battered face we see,

And the stigmata of two thousand years

Wears heavily on the future that is to be.

A void of darkness now before us yawns

Where now the beauty of those early morns?