Cheeks more delicate than the wild-rose of the Desert- canyons ; Bosoms soft, white and fragrant as pond-lilies ; Lips dewy as Aurora new-bathed In the flattery of orient seas.
TRUTH: Profit! Profit! Shall not the young mothers be slain for profit?
POET: Souls leaning upon Hope With all the yearning of a woman's love.
TRUTH: Profit! Profit! Shall not souls be sold for profit?
POET:
My little sisters, my trusting little sisters.
Shall you not snatch at roses which droop heavy for the
picking? Shall you not walk in the poppied paths? Shall you be an-hungered and not taste of the grapes? Has the vaunted God baited you only for destruction?
TRUTH: Shirk not your work upon your pasteboard God.
POET: Yea, I am guilty, for I have consented. Oh, the little children who should be the flowers of the
Future, But their eyes are already weary and their lids droop
toward oblivion. When I walk alone and look up into the sky I do not see the watchful orbs of night. But only the melancholy eyes of the Unborn Which stare at me, saying: "Must we, too, die not knowing Joy?"
37
