the hours before midnight
To all the dictators who look so bold and fresh
The midnight hours, the soft wind from the sweeping wing
Of madness, and the intolerable tightening of the meshOf history. […]
We leave our age the quite considerable spark
Of private love and goodness which never leaves
An age, however awful, in the utter dark. […]And to the good who know how wide the gulf, how deep
Between Ideal and Real, who being good have felt
The final temptation to withdraw, sit down and weep,We pray the power to take upon themselves the guilt
Of human action, though still as ready to confess
The imperfection of what can and must be built,
The wish and power to act, forgive, and bless.