For them, the clear rivers run not,
Nor fall the silent confidences of stars.
They still must sweat in holes where never God looked in,
Harnessing the baby-fingers, softer than young leaves,
To toil for milk, till pitying Death,
Watchful and merciful, opens the leaden gate
Which leads at last to grass and flowers.
TRUTH: And Peace everlasting!
XVI. POET: Oh, Truth, when comes the new day?
TRUTH: As the dawn cometh. Who can say it is here?
POET: May not the soul travail freely? Must it be shackled with the ancient falsities? Even now, the soul of man is seeking its birth, As in the lost eternities the body sought its birth. The rulers and oppressors keep back the day of the soul, But it shall be born on that morrow which is Freedom. The worshipers of the God of Gold cry out stridently : "Do not the hawks devour the thrushes?"
TRUTH: The song of the thrush is sweeter. It is remembered.
POET: Yet the idolaters say : "We are superior."
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