To The Romantic Traditionists

I have looked at them long, My eyes blur; sourceless light Keeps them forever young Before our ageing sight. You see them-too strict forms Of will, the secret dignity Of our dissolute storms; They grow too bright to be. What were they like? What mark Can signify their charm? They never saw the dark; Rigid, they never knew alarm. Do not the scene rehearse! The perfect eyes enjoin A contemptuous verse; We speak the crabbed line. Immaculate race! to yield Us final knowledge set In a cold frieze, a field Of war but no blood let. Are they quite willing, Do they ask to pose, Naked and simple, chilling The very wind's nose? They ask us how to live! We answer: Again try Being the drops we sieve. What death it is to die! Therefore because they nod, Being too full of us, I look at the turned sod Where it is perilous And yawning all the same As if we knew them not And history had no name- No need to name the spot!