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John Milton and Cromwell
Secretary Milton is playing in the twilight- Playing to the Lord Protector, rigid in the gloom. "Ironsides-Ironsides," the night wind is whispering, Stealthy in the shadows of the oak-panelled room. "Marston Moor-Ironsides-Barebones and baubles-" Who shall bind with iron wind that bloweth where it listeth? "Come, Mr. Secretary, will you not play?" Hands upon the organ in a shaft of rainbow melody- Color, sound or fragrance, or a holy cosmic ray Streaming forth with healing? Now the stealthy wind is silent. But still the Lord Protector has his heavy word to say. "Psalms, Mr. Secretary. Word of God is sure- Stubble for our swords they were, Sparks on Marston Moor, Stubble for our swords!" How the oak walls catch the echoes- Strange hissing harshness of the words from out the gloom! "Stubble for our swords they were- Man is born to trouble. Psalms, Mr. Secretary- Make the dark word plain." Who shall bind with iron wind that bloweth where it listeth? Lilies' breath from silver lake? Airs from sealéd tomb? Secretary Milton is playing in the twilight- Playing to the Lord Protector, rigid in the gloom.