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284 Each comes in state with his train—hangman, priest,
 * tax-gatherer,

Soldier, lawyer, lords, jailers, and sycophants.

Yet behind all, hovering, stealing—lo, a Shape, Vague as the night, draped interminably, head front
 * and form, in scarlet folds.

Whose face and eyes none may see, Out of its robes only this—the red robes, lifted by
 * the arm,

One finger crook'd, pointed high over the top, like
 * the head of a snake appears.

Meanwhile, corpses lie in new-made graves—bloody
 * corpses of young men;

The rope of the gibbet hangs heavily, the bullets of
 * princes are flying, the creatures of power laugh
 * aloud,

And all these things bear fruits—and they are good.

Those corpses of young men, Those martyrs that hang from the gibbets—those
 * hearts pierced by the gray lead,

Cold and motionless as they seem, live elsewhere with
 * unslaughter'd vitality.

They live in other young men, O kings! They live in brothers, again ready to defy you! They were purified by death—they were taught and
 * exalted.

Not a grave of the murdered for freedom, but grows
 * seed for freedom, in its turn to bear seed,

Which the winds carry afar and re-sow, and the rains
 * and the snows nourish.