DYING IN HARNESS.
69
At death for a beast of burden? On, through the busy street
That is ever and ever echoing the tread of the hurrying feet.
What was the sign? A symbol to touch the tireless will?
Does He who taught in parables speak in parables still?
The seed on the rock is wasted—on heedless hearts of men,
That gather and sow and grasp and lose—labor and sleep—and then—
Then for the prize! A crowd in the street of ever-echoing tread—
The toiler, crushed by the heavy load, is there in his harness—dead!
