It was not hopeless, then; great Caesar reigned,
Deputed Herod, turncoat from the Jews,
Who built another Temple, made the news
In common Greek, while Latin forces trained.
This child of Esau, called the Great, unchained
Sanhedrin lawyers, winners born to lose,
The enemies of Maccabees, who choose
Tyros, not tears, with Tyrian gold retained.
It is not hopeless, now, though bookshelves fall,
And all about me scatter envelopes
Which, torn, revealing bills, put paid to hopes
I banked in ignorance; but I have read
That wheat, that grows in winter, seeming dead,
Gives birth, when crushed, and flowers into bread.