And pales
Like Cynthia, her more ascetic sister . . .
Vulcan came to her arms in the grimy garb
Of toil, he smelt of the forge and the racketing work- shop.
But not of blood.
And, if she smells these flowers, they bubble ruby blood
That trickles between her fingers.
Yet is a dream flowing over the red country,
Yet is a light growing, for all the black furrows of the
red country . . . The machines are foe or friend As the world desires. The Beasts shall sleep again. And in that sleep, when the land is twilight-still And men take thought among the frozen waves of
the dead, The Sowers go forth once more, Sowers of vision, sowers of the seed Of peace or war. Shall it be peace indeed ?
Great shado\\y figures moving from hill to hill Of tangled bodies, with rhythmic stride and cowled
averted head. What do you sow with hands funereal — New savageries imperial,
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