Once upon a midday meeting, while I wondered tired and
dreaming,
Over many a boring volume of forgotten law-
While I agreed, nearly sleeping, suddenly there came a
bleeping,
As of someone loudly pushing- pushing my bell
door
‘Just some MP,’ I muttered, “Pushing at my bell door
Only this and nothing more.”
Ah, distinctly I relay, it was in the loss of May,
And each separate dying say lost its way in the
Lords.
Eagerly I wished the morning- after dreaming I was
falling,
From my power and my calling- falling like the lost
Labour-
For the pure and confident party whom the workers name
Labour-
Nameless here for evermore.
And the smooth sly subversive flutter of each scarlet drape
Shocked me, stocked me, with saddening fates never felt before;
So that now, to quieten the voices of my heart, I stood rejoicing:
“Tis some MP seeking study at my commons door-
Some lost Liberal seeking study at my commons door;-
This it is and nothing more”.
Suddenly my spine grew braver, worrying then no graver,
‘Lord’ said I, “or Baron, truly your apologies I restore;
But the problem is I was sleeping, and quietly you came a bleeping;
And so shyly you came beating- beating at my commons
door,
That I say was sure I heard you”- so I pulled wide the
door:-
Darkness there and nothing more.
Long into that empty gazing, a while I stood there,
jittering, praising,
Thinking trepid thoughts no MP ever dared think
before;
But the quiet was forever, and the empty gave no
better,
And the only word there uttered was the needy name
‘Labour!’-
This I whispered, and an echo hissed back the word
‘Labour!’
Merely this and nothing more.
Then into the commons moving, all my heart within me
bruising.
Soon again I heard a bleeping, somewhat louder than before.
‘Clearly,’ said I, “Clearly that is someone at my window
ledge;
Let me see then what disturbance lays behind this window door-
Let my soul rest quiet a second, and this mystery be torn-
“Tis the wind and nothing more’
Open there I moved the latch, when with a crawl and
catch.,
In there jumped a jealous Raven of the greedy gates of Lords.
Not any, remarks made he, not a second stopped or
stayed he;
But with class of Lord or leader, perched above my commons
door-
Perched upon a bust of Maggie, just above my commons door-
Perched and sat, and nothing more.
Then this scarlet bird enticing, my old faith into sighing,
By the lost and past beliefs of the socialists it wore,
‘Though thy label be red and rosey, thou,’ I said, “art
sure no trophy,
Faintly fun and clever Raven, fleeing from the
commons bore-
Tell me what thy Lordly name is on the common”s sacred
floor!’
Quoth the Raven, “Power, more”
Much I praised this lowly fool to hear discourse so
slowly,
Though its answer, little meaning- little knowledge bore;
For we cannot help deciding that no new political rising
Ever yet was glad with seeing bird above his commons
door,
Ever yet was glad with seeing bird above his commons
door-
With such a name as “power, more”
But the Raven, sitting demurely on that sacred bust, spoke only
That one phrase, as if his heart in that one phrase he did
store.
Nothing further he muttered, not a feather than he
fluttered-
Till I barely more than spluttered, “Other ministers have
flown before-
In the morning he will leave me, as my dreams have
flown before.”
Then the bird said, “Power, more”
Shocked at the silence broken, by a reply so strongly spoken,
‘Clueless,’ said I, “What it mutters are only its rules of law,
Trapped by some faulting leader, whose untruthful
reasons
Questioned quick and questioned quicker till his colours one party
bore-
Till the hinges of his hope, the falling party bore
Of “Power- power, more’
But the raven still enticing my old faith into sighing,
Straight I pushed a comfy chair in front of bird and bust
door;
Then upon the cushion dreaming, I betook myself to piecing
Clues unto clues, pondering what this jealous bird of
Lords-
What this stout, unfriendly, strongly rude and jealous
bird of Lords
Meant in croaking “Power, more”
Thus I sat immersed in wonder, but no meanings under,
To the fool whose envious eyes now pierced my
bosom’s core;
This and more I sat submerging with my head at ease
reversing
On the cushion’s comfy scarlet lining with the chandelier
glowing over,
But whose comfy scarlet lining with the chandelier
glowing over,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, I thought, the air grew colder, present from a
mysterious loather,
From our leader whose foot falls frailly on the
commons floor.
‘Pain,’ I cried, “our leader hath lent thee- by these
MP”s he hath sent thee
Decline- decline and reject from thy memories of
Labour!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind of regret, and forget this lost
Labour!’
Quoth the Raven, “Power, more.”
‘Saviour!’ said I, “Think of left!- saviour still, if bird or
pest!-
Whether lords have sent or whether rebels tossed thee
here ashore,
Secluded yet all too crowded, on this lonely planet
shrouded-
In this house where fate is forever- tell me truly, I restore-
Is there- is there hope in May?- Tell me – tell me. I retort!”
Quoth the Raven, “Power, more.”
‘Saviour!’, said I, “Thing of left- saviour still, if bird or pest.
But that leader that mends above us, that leader we both support-
Tell this heart with hopeless faith if, within the distant future,
We shall clasp and shall not waste, bring back Labour-
Clasp a pure and confident party whom the workers name Labour.”
Quoth the Raven, “Power, more.”
‘Be that phrase your sign of leaving, bird or pest!’ I screamed
up heaving-
‘Get thee back into the stalls of the Commons sacred floor!
Leave no scarlet steps as tokens of that fate thy heart has spoken!
Leave my happiness unbroken!- exit the bust above my door!
Take thy strength from out my party, and take thy form from off my
door!
Quoth the Raven, “Power, more”
And the Raven, never moving, still is brooding- still is brooding
On the sacred bust of Maggie just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the gleaming of a threat so pleasing,
And the chandelier over him streaming shines his shadow on the
floor;
And my heart from out the horror that lies forever on the floor
Shall be lifted- nevermore!