513 lines
16 KiB
Plaintext
513 lines
16 KiB
Plaintext
1899
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WAR IS KIND AND OTHER LINES
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by Stephen Crane
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I
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Do not weep, maiden, for war is kind.
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Because your lover threw wild hands toward the sky
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And the affrighted steed ran on alone,
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Do not weep.
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War is kind.
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Hoarse, booming drums of the regiment,
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Little souls who thirst for fight,
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These men were born to drill and die.
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The unexplained glory flies above them,
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Great is the battle-god, great, and his kingdom --
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A field where a thousand corpses lie.
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Do not weep, babe, for war is kind.
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Because your father tumbled in the yellow trenches,
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Raged at his breast, gulped and died,
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Do not weep.
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War is kind.
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Swift blazing flag of the regiment,
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Eagle with crest of red and gold,
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These men were born to drill and die.
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Point for them the virtue of slaughter,
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Make plain to them the excellence of killing
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And a field where a thousand corpses lie.
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Mother whose heart hung humble as a button
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On the bright splendid shroud of your son,
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Do not weep.
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War is kind.
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II
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"What says the sea, little shell?
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What says the sea?
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Long has our brother been silent to us,
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Kept his message for the ships,
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Awkward ships, stupid ships."
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"The sea bids you mourn, O Pines,
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Sing low in the moonlight.
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He sends tale of the land of doom,
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Of place where endless falls
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A rain of women's tears,
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And men in grey robes --
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Men in grey robes --
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Chant the unknown pain."
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"What says the sea, little shell?
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What says the sea?
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Long has our brother been silent to us,
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Kept his message for the ships,
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Puny ships, silly ships."
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"The sea bids you teach, O Pines,
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Sing low in the moonlight;
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Teach the gold of patience,
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Cry gospel of gentle hands,
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Cry a brotherhood of hearts.
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The sea bids you teach, O Pines."
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"And where is the reward, little shell?
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What says the sea?
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Long has our brother been silent to us,
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Kept his message for the ships,
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Puny ships, silly ships."
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"No word says the sea, O Pines,
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No word says the sea.
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Long will your brother be silent to you,
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Keep his message for the ships,
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O puny pines, silly pines."
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III
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To the maiden
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The sea was blue meadow,
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Alive with little froth-people
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Singing.
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To the sailor, wrecked,
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The sea was dead grey walls
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Superlative in vacancy,
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Upon which nevertheless at fateful time
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Was written
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The grim hatred of nature.
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IV
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A little ink more or less!
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I surely can't matter?
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Even the sky and the opulent sea,
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The plains and the hills, aloof,
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Hear the uproar of all these books.
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But it is only a little ink more or less.
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What?
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You define me God with these trinkets?
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Can my misery meal on an ordered walking
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Of surpliced numskulls?
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And a fanfare of lights?
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Or even upon the measured pulpitings
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Of the familiar false and true?
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Is this God?
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Where, then, is hell?
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Show me some bastard mushroom
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Sprung from a pollution of blood.
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It is better.
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Where is God?
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V
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"Have you ever made a just man?"
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"Oh, I have made three," answered God,
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"But two of them are dead,
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And the third --
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Listen! Listen!
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And you will hear the thud of his defeat."
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VI
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I explain the silvered passing of a ship at night,
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The sweep of each sad lost wave,
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The dwindling boom of the steel thing's striving,
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The little cry of a man to a man,
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A shadow falling across the greyer night,
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And the sinking of the small star;
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Then the waste, the far waste of waters,
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And the soft lashing of black waves
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For long and in loneliness.
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Remember, thou, O ship of love,
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Thou leavest a far waste of waters,
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And the soft lashing of black waves
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For long and in loneliness.
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VII
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"I have heard the sunset song of the birches,
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A white melody in the silence,
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I have seen a quarrel of the pines.
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At nightfall
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The little grasses have rushed by me
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With the wind men.
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These things have I lived," quoth the maniac,
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"Possessing only eyes and ears.
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But you --
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You don green spectacles before you look at roses."
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VIII
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Fast rode the knight
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With spurs, hot and reeking,
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Ever waving an eager sword,
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"To save my lady!"
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Fast rode the knIght,
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And leaped from saddle to war.
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Men of steel flickered and gleamed
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Like riot of silver lights,
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And the gold of the knight's good banner
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Still waved on a castle wall.
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. . . . .
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A horse,
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Blowing, staggering, bloody thing,
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Forgotten at foot of castle wall.
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A horse
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Dead at foot of castle wall.
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IX
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Forth went the candid man
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And spoke freely to the wind --
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When he looked about him he was in a far strange country.
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Forth went the candid man
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And spoke freely to the stars --
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Yellow light tore sight from his eyes.
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"My good fool," said a learned bystander,
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"Your operations are mad."
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"You are too candid," cried the candid man,
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And when his stick left the head of the learned bystander
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It was two sticks.
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X
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You tell me this is God?
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I tell you this is a printed list,
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A burning candle, and an ass.
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XI
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On the desert
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A silence from the moon's deepest valley.
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Fire rays fall athwart the robes
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Of hooded men, squat and dumb.
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Before them, a woman
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Moves to the blowing of shrill whistles
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And distant thunder of drums,
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While mystic things, sinuous, dull with terrible colour,
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Sleepily fondle her body
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Or move at her will, swishing stealthily over the sand.
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The snakes whisper softly;
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The whispering, whispering snakes,
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Dreaming and swaying and staring,
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But always whispering, softly whispering.
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The wind streams from the lone reaches
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Of Arabia, solemn with night,
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And the wild fire makes shimmer of blood
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Over the robes of the hooded men
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Squat and dumb.
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Bands of moving bronze, emerald, yellow,
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Circle the throat and the arms of her,
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And over the sands serpents move warily
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Slow, menacing and submissive,
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Swinging to the whistles and drums,
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The whispering, whispering snakes,
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Dreaming and swaying and staring,
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But always whispering, softly whispering.
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The dignity of the accursed;
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The glory of slavery, despair, death,
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Is in the dance of the whispering snakes.
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XII
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A newspaper is a collection of half-injustices
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Which, bawled by boys from mile to mile,
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Spreads its curious opinion
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To a million merciful and sneering men,
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While families cuddle the joys of the fireside
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When spurred by tale of dire lone agony.
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A newspaper is a court
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Where every one is kindly and unfairly tried
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By a squalor of honest men.
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A newspaper is a market
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Where wisdom sells its freedom
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And melons are crowned by the crowd.
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A newspaper is a game
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Where his error scores the player victory
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While another's skill wins death.
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A newspaper is a symbol;
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It is feckless life's chronicle,
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A collection of loud tales
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Concentrating eternal stupidities,
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That in remote ages lived unhaltered,
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Roaming through a fenceless world.
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XIII
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The wayfarer,
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Perceiving the pathway to truth,
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Was struck with astonishment.
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It was thickly grown with weeds.
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"Ha," he said,
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"I see that none has passed here
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In a long time."
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Later he saw that each weed
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Was a singular knife.
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"Well," he mumbled at last,
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"Doubtless there are other roads."
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XIV
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A slant of sun on dull brown walls,
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A forgotten sky of bashful blue.
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Toward God a mighty hymn,
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A song of collisions and cries,
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Rumbling wheels, hoof-beats, bells,
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Welcomes, farewells, love-calls, final moans,
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Voices of joy, idiocy, warning, despair,
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The unknown appeals of brutes,
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The chanting of flowers,
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The screams of cut trees,
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The senseless babble of hens and wise men --
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A cluttered incoherency that says at the stars:
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"O God, save us!"
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XV
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Once a man clambering to the housetops
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Appealed to the heavens.
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With strong voice he called to the deaf spheres;
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A warrior's shout he raised to the suns.
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Lo, at last, there was a dot on the clouds,
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And -- at last and at last --
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-- God -- the sky was filled with armies.
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XVI
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There was a man with tongue of wood
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Who essayed to sing,
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And in truth it was lamentable.
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But there was one who heard
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The clip-clapper of this tongue of wood
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And knew what the man
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Wished to sing,
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And with that the singer was content.
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XVII
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The successful man has thrust himself
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Through the water of the years,
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Reeking wet with mistakes --
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Bloody mistakes;
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Slimed with victories over the lesser,
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A figure thankful on the shore of money.
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Then, with the bones of fools
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He buys silken banners
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Limned with his triumphant face;
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With the skins of wise men
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He buys the trivial bows of all.
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Flesh painted with marrow
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Contributes a coverlet,
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A coverlet for his contented slumber.
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In guiltless ignorance, in ignorant guilt,
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He delivered his secrets to the riven multitude.
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"Thus I defended: Thus I wrought."
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Complacent, smiling,
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He stands heavily on the dead.
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Erect on a pillar of skulls
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He declaims his trampling of babes;
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Smirking, fat, dripping,
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He makes speech in guiltless ignorance,
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Innocence.
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XVIII
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In the night
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Grey heavy clouds muffled the valleys,
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And the peaks looked toward God alone.
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"O Master that movest the wind with a finger,
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Humble, idle, futile peaks are we.
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Grant that we may run swiftly across the world
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To huddle in worship at Thy feet."
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In the morning
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A noise of men at work came the clear blue miles,
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And the little black cities were apparent.
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"O Master that knowest the meaning of raindrops,
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Humble, idle, futile peaks are we.
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Give voice to us, we pray, O Lord,
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That we may sing Thy goodness to the sun."
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In the evening
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The far valleys were sprinkled with tiny lights.
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"O Master,
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Thou that knowest the value of kings and birds,
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Thou hast made us humble, idle futile peaks.
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Thou only needest eternal patience;
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We bow to Thy wisdom, O Lord --
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Humble, idle, futile peaks."
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In the night
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Grey heavy clouds muffled the valleys,
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And the peaks looked toward God alone.
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XIX
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The chatter of a death-demon from a tree-top
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Blood -- blood and torn grass --
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Had marked the rise of his agony --
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This lone hunter.
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The grey-green woods impassive
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Had watched the threshing of his limbs.
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A canoe with flashing paddle,
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A girl with soft searching eyes,
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A call: "John!"
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. . . . .
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Come, arise, hunter!
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Can you not hear?
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The chatter of a death-demon from a tree-top.
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XX
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The impact of a dollar upon the heart
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Smiles warm red light,
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Sweeping from the hearth rosily upon the white table,
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With the hanging cool velvet shadows
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Moving softly upon the door.
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The impact of a million dollars
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Is a crash of flunkeys,
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And yawning emblems of Persia
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Cheeked against oak, France and a sabre,
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The outcry of old beauty
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Whored by pimping merchants
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To submission before wine and chatter.
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Silly rich peasants stamp the carpets of men,
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Dead men who dreamed fragrance and light
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Into their woof, their lives;
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The rug of an honest bear
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Under the feet of a cryptic slave
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Who speaks always of baubles,
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Forgetting state, multitude, work, and state,
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Champing and mouthing of hats,
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Making ratful squeak of hats,
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Hats.
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XXI
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A man said to the universe:
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"Sir I exist!"
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"However," replied the universe,
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"The fact has not created in me
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A sense of obligation."
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XXII
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When the prophet, a complacent fat man,
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Arrived at the mountain-top,
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He cried: "Woe to my knowledge!
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I intended to see good white lands
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And bad black lands,
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But the scene is grey."
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XXIII
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There was a land where lived no violets.
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A traveller at once demanded : "Why?"
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The people told him:
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"Once the violets of this place spoke thus:
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'Until some woman freely gives her lover
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To another woman
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We will fight in bloody scuffle.'"
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Sadly the people added:
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"There are no violets here."
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XXIV
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Ay, workman, make me a dream,
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A dream for my love.
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Cunningly weave sunlight,
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Breezes, and flowers.
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Let it be of the cloth of meadows.
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And -- good workman --
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And let there be a man walking thereon.
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XXV
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Each small gleam was a voice,
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A lantern voice --
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In little songs of carmine, violet, green, gold.
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A chorus of colours came over the water;
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The wondrous leaf-shadow no longer wavered,
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No pines crooned on the hills,
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The blue night was elsewhere a silence,
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When the chorus of colours came over the water,
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Little songs of carmine, violet, green, gold.
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Small glowing pebbles
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Thrown on the dark plane of evening
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Sing good ballads of God
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And eternity, with soul's rest.
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Little priests, little holy fathers,
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None can doubt the truth of your hymning,
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When the marvellous chorus comes over the water,
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Songs of carmine, violet, green, gold.
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XXVI
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The trees in the garden rained flowers.
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Children ran there joyously.
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They gathered the flowers
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Each to himself.
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Now there were some
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Who gathered great heaps --
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Having opportunity and skill --
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Until, behold, only chance blossoms
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Remained for the feeble.
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Then a little spindling tutor
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Ran importantly to the father, crying:
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"Pray, come hither!
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See this unjust thing in your garden!"
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But when the father had surveyed,
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He admonished the tutor:
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"Not so, small sage!
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This thing is just.
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For, look you,
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Are not they who possess the flowers
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Stronger, bolder, shrewder
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Than they who have none?
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Why should the strong --
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The beautiful strong --
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Why should they not have the flowers?"
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Upon reflection, the tutor bowed to the ground,
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"My lord," he said,
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"The stars are displaced
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By this towering wisdom."
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XXVII
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When a people reach the top of a hill,
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Then does God lean toward them,
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Shortens tongues and lengthens arms.
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A vision of their dead comes to the weak.
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The moon shall not be too old
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Before the new battalions rise,
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Blue battalions.
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The moon shall not be too old
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When the children of change shall fall
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Before the new battalions,
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The blue battalions.
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Mistakes and virtues will be trampled deep.
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A church and a thief shall fall together.
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A sword will come at the bidding of the eyeless,
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The God-led, turning only to beckon,
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Swinging a creed like a censer
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At the head of the new battalions,
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Blue battalions.
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March the tools of nature's impulse,
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Men born of wrong, men born of right,
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Men of the new battalions,
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The blue battalions.
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The clang of swords is Thy wisdom,
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The wounded make gestures like Thy Son's;
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The feet of mad horses is one part --
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Ay, another is the hand of a mother on the brow of a youth.
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Then, swift as they charge through a shadow,
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The men of the new battalions,
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Blue battalions --
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God lead them high, God lead them far,
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God lead them far, God lead them high,
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These new battalions,
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The blue battalions.
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THE END
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