TRUTH: Revolution.
POET: Onward, ever onward, it comes resistless as the Tide of
Time; men with pale faces; Women with despairful eyes, And little children who have never laughed. Dancing with the glee of demons, are their fluttering
banners ; the rags of their poverty ; From mines, mills and factories ; From the slimy slums of cities ; From the dark and dangerous caverns of the earth ; From the narrow and dripping tunnels of darkness, come
the rats of Civilization ; From the clamorous and devouring penitentiaries of
Industry ; From the white-hot, roaring hells of furnaces ; From the mind-madding laughter of the machines. And the devouring cruelty of the pest-houses of Greed. Their banners grimace against the dawn, and the rags of
their misery jump like little gray demons. Behind them, hobbling, grinning, leering. Scramble the misshapen spawn of the dens of degradation. As leaves upon the floor of the November forest. Thickly they cover the earth, and like the rustle of leaves Is their breathing. "Revolution. Revolution." Steady and ominous is the tramp of their feet, like the
ponderous throb of an engine without a master.
TRUTH: They are not going down into the pits. They are not marching to the factories. They are not going to the furnaces ; Nearer, more near ; stronger ; louder ; more strong ; They come, and the mutter of their lips is "Revolution. Revolution. Revolution."
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