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POET:

Would I might catch vision of the perfect soul, The wondrous ultimate, A prize for angels.

For this, through the dizzy aeons of the Past, Has our strange worm crawled out from the ooze of Time And tremblingly has stood erect, conceiving beauty beau- tifully conceived; Conceiving freedom for conceived free. Of joy anhungered for that life is joy. It is sad to me that

These weary ones, with weak faces and cunning eyes, Whom we have made. Shall never know the stature of a soul.

TRUTH: Nor any, till the laws cease from their obstructions.

POET: Oh, what do the weary ones. With little degenerate heads and brutal faces, Know of their inheritance? Before they were bom, they were stamped for

Destruction. Nature shakes out from her fingers abundance. But Man's laws have branded the babes in the womb,

"Disinherited."

TRUTH: Behold the pedigree of Degradation: Authority, maker of laws, father of Privilege ; Privilege, father of Poverty ; Poverty, father of all crime and degeneration.

POET:

Come, Holy Revolution. As Morning, the great architect,

gilds the dome of the world. So hope is growing upon the clouds of my soul.

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