The pathetic rags of Labor.
Why should I, who will soon drink the comfortable cup,
Sing of Joy, or shower words like rose-petals
Upon the toilers whose backs are bent?
Shall I twitter a morning song,
While millions lie cold in darkness?
Or sing the rhapsodies of Love,
While my sisters barter for bitter bread, or brittle
pleasure. That sacred fire, more elder than the Sun, Lit in Eternity, purer than Purity, And sheltered by the old, dead gods?
TRUTH: Sing of manhood. Poet, Of straight-lipped manhood, Which, wide-eyed, with uplifted brows. Fearless, grips the gods and cries : "Hail, comrades, I am your fellow."
.^ '^■' k,
IL \ POET: Nature, flawless, without error in her turning.
TRUTH: What is Man, that he should oppose himself to her
eternity. Or think to know her infinite perfection? Shall the child
understand the mother? To one who stands upon the promontory of a star, Are not the ants and bees as precious? Their knowledge
admirable? Nature is wonderful in the infinity of her largeness, And of her smallness;
The clod of the field as mysterious as a star ; And a grain of dust as the mountains. Are not the grasses, the fruits, the vari-colored flowers,
from the dust?
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