Frederick Philip Grove
THOUGHTS
(IM 1-14)

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e-Edition by Gaby Divay
© August 2007

University of Manitoba Libraries	FPG & FrL Collections	University of Manitoba Archives

THE PROCESSION[52] by Frederick Philip Grove "Mankind is on the march. Fall in! Step out! "Or stand aside to make for others room! "We have no time for hesitance and doubt." I stop and ponder in the dusk's pale gloom.[53] They call it progress that from place to place Yearly they travel faster o'er this earth: As if it could depend upon its pace What life to anyone on earth is worth! They call it progress that with wings of cloth Bird-like they soar, as fish-like once they swam: As if with aeroplanes to raise a froth Were greater than to do so with a pram. They call it progress that without a wire The distant speak to them, with nought to say: As if a voice without an[54] inner fire Could lengthen or could gladden their dull day. And meanwhile they disguise their real traits: Man cutting his moustache into a brush, And woman mixing paint which overlays With chalky whites and flaming reds her blush. They mince[55] along like panders and like whores, Exhibit masks; as if they were their flesh, And laugh and jest as if their ugly chores Performed themselves and left them young and fresh. Their thoughts they gather from huge printed sheets Which in themselves are void and meaningless; And he is counted wise who but repeats Their inane babblings.[56] What a name, "The Press"! From glaring posters by the road are shot These saving gospels; to the surging crowd: "Forget, forget! And seem what you are not!" "Come, silence kills; but phonographs are loud!"[57] Yet, underneath, concealed by their[58] array, Remains in some a thought which drills and delves: "What is at bottom? Why all this display? "To hide the fact that we are still ourselves? "And that means worms: with little strength to spare "For ought but this: to realize our plight "On this our earth where sorrow, grief and care "Pursue and overtake our frantic flight........" Still stand I[59] in the dusk; then turn aside, Bewildered by the din, and shake my head. White gleams a stone: with thee let me abide! Thee I do understand; for thou art dead. In Memoriam 11