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POET: I am cold with the relentless insistence of their coming. I know they will not turn back, More than the relentless river turns not back ; Which bears furiously on its tossing front The mangled homes it has snatched for its eating. It giggles at the gurgle of those who sink.

TRUTH: Revolution, Revolution. Revolution.

POET: I know these will not turn back, more than the wave turns

not back Which dashes the great ship upon the rocks And churns her bones savagely. They will not turn back more than the centuries Which are past turn not back. What is that which sits in the eyes of the imminent host?

TRUTH: Death. They have accepted the challenge and are pressing

forward to die. On their backs, like knapsacks bowing them over, is all

the suffering of the centuries.

POET: I see back of their endlessness, Like a cloud against the sky. The ghosts of all the martyrs of the ages ; The unimagined, patient Poor whose blood has welled up About the ankles of Oppression.

TRUTH: Oh, Revolution, dark and brooding angel of the bloody

deeps. Only ministrant who tenderly lifts up the bruised head ; Nurse who wipes the blood from the lips of rebels And gives them to drink of the running waters ;

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