See, the night has shrunk away over the edge of the
Desert ; The coyote has ceased from his lamentations ; The hill-tops are touched with pink, And presently, like a fiery harlequin. The sun will vault over the purple barriers ; And shepherds will call to their woolly flocks.
TRUTH: So shall the Revolution come. And Freedom, the dawn of the new day.
POET:
I rejoice in the silent consolations of the Desert
And am soothed by the tenderness of the morning-breeze,
But what of the accusing groans
From the prisons which Man has builded.
Wherein his victims die the living death?
I rejoice in the aromatic smell of the sage-brush after the
rain; The circling of hawks and buzzards ; The cooing of plaintive doves.
And complaining of little cuckoo-owls from their burrows. These things, and more, infinitely, Penetrate my heart with gladness; But shall my soul be satisfied if I alone am glad, And not my brother?
Shall I be content to see the laughing nymphs Spread a carpet to invite the gleaming feet of Spring, The twinkling feet of shy, persuasive, mystic, rhythmic
Spring? Or, if I fly from this Desert to the mountains. What to me is the hushed, persistent laughter of summer
woods. Glimpses of brown-armed dryads, lying beneath the oaks, Rejoicing in the coquetry of the trees? Or all the winds of Freedom,
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