Here sorrow has no beauty, death no greatness.
Where the dumb fields from Heaven to Heaven run
In a dull poverty of desolateness
Under a blind sky, and the rain is spun
In a grey web that long has slain the sun.
To go down reeling in a wild endeavour.
Or take unvanquished in a heart of scorn
The inevitable sword–were well–but never
In these low lands to watch as soon as born
The golden thread in abjectness outworn.
The worth of all things is what men will pay.
And for these mean fields men die every day