Tell them though they dispute this thing,This is the song that dead men sing:One spark of spirit God head gaveTo all alike, to sire and slave,From earth's red core to each white pole,This one identity of soul;That when the pipes of beauty play,The feet must dance, the limbs must sway,And even the heart with grief turned lead,Beauty shall lift like a leaf wind-sped,Shall swoop upon in gentle might,Shall toss and tease and leave so lightThat never again shall grief or careFind long or willing lodgement there.Tell them each law and rule they makeMankind shall disregard and break(If this must be) for beauty's sake.Tell them what pranks the spring can play;The young colt leaps, the cat that layIn a sullen ball all winter longBreaks like a kettle into song;Waving it high like a limber flail,The kitten worries his own brief tail;While man and dog sniff the wind alike,For the new smell hurts them like a spikeOf steel thrust quickly through the breast;Earth heaves and groans with a sharp unrest.
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