John Davidson (poet)

Business – the world's work – is the sale of lies:In every branch becomes the sale of money.

— John Davidson (poet)

One must becomeTo smite a passage through the close-grained world.

— John Davidson (poet)

Mere by-blows are the world and we,A sheer anachronism.

— John Davidson (poet)

Farewell the hope that mocked, farewell despairBefore my life began; my resting-place.

— John Davidson (poet)

Unwilling friend, let not your spite abate;Help me with scorn, and strengthen me with hate.

— John Davidson (poet)

Seraphs and saints with one great voiceHell raised a hoarse, half-human cheer.

— John Davidson (poet)

And the difficultest job a man can do,And we fall, face forward, fighting, on the deck.

— John Davidson (poet)