nineteen hundred and nineteen

Come let us mock at the great
That had such burdens on the mind
And toiled so hard and late
 To leave some monument behind,
Nor thought of the levelling wind.

 Come let us mock at the wise;
With all those calendars whereon
They fixed old aching eyes,
They never saw how seasons run,
And now but gape at the sun.
 Come let us mock at the good
That fancied goodness might be gay,
And sick of solitude
Might proclaim a holiday:
Wind shrieked— and where are they?

 Mock mockers after that
That would not lift a hand maybe
To help good, wise or great
To bar that foul storm out, for we
Traffic in mockery.

 William Butler Yeats Nineteen Hundred and Nineteen