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year and place, A harsh, discordant, natal scream rising, to touch the
 * mother's heart closer than any yet.

I walked the shores of my Eastern Sea, Heard over the waves the little voice. Saw the divine infant, where she woke, mournfully
 * wailing, amid the roar of cannon, curses, shouts,
 * crash of falling buildings.

Was not so sick from the blood in the gutters running
 * —nor from the single corpses, nor those in heaps,
 * nor those borne away in the tumbrils,

Was not so desperate at the battues of death—was
 * not so shocked at the repeated fusillades of the
 * guns.

Pale, silent, stern, what could I say ,to that long-
 * accrued retribution?

Could I wish humanity different? Could I wish the people made of wood and stone? Or that there be no justice in destiny or time? (406)