The cold hand of the God of Gold Is eager to extinguish it.
TRUTH: Moloch insatiable!
POET:
The blood of children drips from the wine-press.
TRUTH: There is another wine of another vintage. Revolution! Revolution! Revolution! Red wine, warm from the press.
POET: Above the little ones grins Hag Poverty ; With cruel claws and lean, flat breast. She hugs the children, grinning ; leering, mocking. Her caress is death.
I see half-starved families, huddled together In hot and putrid rooms. Stinking dens for sacred childbirth.
TRUTH: Oh, the breeding of the puny little maggots.
POET: My heart is heavy when I think of those who hunger, and
cannot reach the bountiful breasts. The brown, wet laps of fields, Steaming beneath the April sun. Billowy seas of yellow harvest; rippling to the frolic of
the wind. Bourgeoning of trees, coquetting with the jewelry of new
buds. Delicately arranging them. As a Princess decks herself with emeralds, smiling
sedately. Fruit-trees, heavy with their plundering ; Young warriors, laden with the loot of cities.
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