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The Truly Great
by Stephen Spender

I think continually of those
who were truly great.
Who, from the womb, remembered
the soul’s history
through corridors of light,
where the hours are suns,
endless and singing.
Whose lovely ambition
was that their lips,
still touched with fire,
should tell of the Spirit,
clothed from head to foot in song.
And who hoarded
from the Spring branches
the desires
falling across their bodies
like blossoms.

What is precious
is never to forget
the essential delight of the blood
drawn from ageless springs
breaking through rocks
in worlds before our earth.
Never to deny its pleasure
in the morning simple light
nor its grave evening demand
for love.
Never to allow gradually
the traffic to smother
with noise and fog
the flowering of the spirit.

Near the snow, near the sun,
in the highest fields,
see how these names are fêted
by the waving grass
and by the streamers of white cloud
and whispers of wind
in the listening sky.
The names of those who
in their lives fought for life,
who wore at their hearts
the fire’s centre.
Born of the sun,
they travelled a short while
toward the sun
and left the vivid air
signed with their honour.

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