Ten million names of God are best
but none of them are God:
the gods are away with the gnomes,fairies and nymphs:
gone odd where the even way came blest:
let the children give them homes!
And they shall become humourous Bads
in stories with lightfooted Goods
who frolic in the grass-stems, spangle-clad,
or opal-winged wend those wild woods
destined for joy though every damned Power roams:
That's all I'll ask of you about
ten million gods gone under bland books or stone cairns,
like cockroaches at Newish House, baited out without
grief nor gratitude, I ask you, spare your tomes!
Don't pyramid your stones, let the wise bairns
play with all that's old: give the cast-off servants homes.