Page:The Poet in the Desert.djvu/81



The cold hand of the God of Gold Is eager to extinguish it.

TRUTH: Moloch insatiable!

POET:

The blood of children drips from the wine-press.

TRUTH: There is another wine of another vintage. Revolution! Revolution! Revolution! Red wine, warm from the press.

POET: Above the little ones grins Hag Poverty ; With cruel claws and lean, flat breast. She hugs the children, grinning ; leering, mocking. Her caress is death.

I see half-starved families, huddled together In hot and putrid rooms. Stinking dens for sacred childbirth.

TRUTH: Oh, the breeding of the puny little maggots.

POET: My heart is heavy when I think of those who hunger, and

cannot reach the bountiful breasts. The brown, wet laps of fields, Steaming beneath the April sun. Billowy seas of yellow harvest; rippling to the frolic of

the wind. Bourgeoning of trees, coquetting with the jewelry of new

buds. Delicately arranging them. As a Princess decks herself with emeralds, smiling

sedately. Fruit-trees, heavy with their plundering ; Young warriors, laden with the loot of cities.

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