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Cheeks more delicate than the wild-rose of the Desert- canyons ; Bosoms soft, white and fragrant as pond-lilies ; Lips dewy as Aurora new-bathed In the flattery of orient seas.

TRUTH: Profit! Profit! Shall not the young mothers be slain for profit?

POET: Souls leaning upon Hope With all the yearning of a woman's love.

TRUTH: Profit! Profit! Shall not souls be sold for profit?

POET:

My little sisters, my trusting little sisters.

Shall you not snatch at roses which droop heavy for the

picking? Shall you not walk in the poppied paths? Shall you be an-hungered and not taste of the grapes? Has the vaunted God baited you only for destruction?

TRUTH: Shirk not your work upon your pasteboard God.

POET: Yea, I am guilty, for I have consented. Oh, the little children who should be the flowers of the

Future, But their eyes are already weary and their lids droop

toward oblivion. When I walk alone and look up into the sky I do not see the watchful orbs of night. But only the melancholy eyes of the Unborn Which stare at me, saying: "Must we, too, die not knowing Joy?"

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