Page:General William Booth enters into Heaven, and other poems.djvu/135

Rh The glory that the prairie angels sing At night when sons of Life and Love are born,

Born but to struggle, squalid and alone, Broken and wandering in their early years. When will they make our dusty streets their goal, Within our attics hide their sacred tears?

When will they start our vulgar blood athrill With living language, words that set us free? When will they make a path of beauty clear Between our riches and our liberty?

We must have many Lincoln-hearted men. A city is not builded in a day. And they must do their work, and come and go While countless generations pass away.