And sets the Universe ablaze ;
All things rejoice. The Desert murmurs and the skies cry
aloud in ectasy : The Sun has come ; the Sun ; the Sun.
TRUTH: Glorious is the coming of the Sun in the Desert ; But Dawn also tarries before the gates of disaster. I see the toil-worn ants hurrying out of their filthy nests, Clutching at their throats with bony fingers And with frightened faces murmuring : "To eat ; only to eat." To work until the night comes. To sink exhausted, squeezed utterly dry. To be fed again to the insatiable machines At the next dawning.
I see men with lusterless eyes, women with pale faces, And the little children who have never laughed.
POET: Do these ever hear the larks chanting matins, Or finches praying in the wild-rose thickets? Do these lie down where the brooks commune with their
pebbled floors. Tricking the May-flies to their gauzy dance. And warbling to the mouth-dripping kine A song of pastures, of minty beds and purple bergamot?
TRUTH: The rest for the toilers is Oblivion.
POET: Never once have they heard the little rivers calling. Almost impatiently : "Lie down by our hurrying. "Rest ye beside us.
"Let us whisper to you out of Eternity "And soothe your ears with our legends. "You are but for a moment, but we are forever.
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