He stalks until the dawn-stars burn away.

A bronzed, lank man! His suit of ancient black,

A famous high top-hat and plain worn shawl

Make him the quaint great figure that men love,

The prairie-lawyer, master of us all.

He cannot sleep upon his hillside now.

He is among us: -- as in times before!

And we who toss and lie awake for long

Breathe deep, and start, to see him pass the door.

His head is bowed. He thinks on men and kings.

Yea, when the sick world cries, how can he sleep?

Too many peasants fight, they know not why,

Too many homesteads in black terror weep.

The sins of all the war-lords burn his heart.

He sees the dreadnaughts scouring every main.

He carries on his shawl-wrapped shoulders now

The bitterness, the folly and the pain.

He cannot rest until a spirit-dawn

Shall come; -- the shining hope of Europe free:

The league of sober folk, the Workers' Earth,

Bringing long peace to Cornland, Alp and Sea.

It breaks his heart that kings must murder still,

That all his hours of travail here for men

Seem yet in vain. And who will bring white peace

That he may sleep upon his hill again?

II. A Curse for Kings

A curse upon each king who leads his state,

No matter what his plea, to this foul game,

And may it end his wicked dynasty,

And may he die in exile and black shame.

If there is vengeance in the Heaven of Heavens,

What punishment could Heaven devise for these

Who fill the rivers of the world with dead,

And turn their murderers loose on all the seas!

Put back the clock of time a thousand years,

And make our Europe, once the world's proud Queen,

A shrieking strumpet, furious fratricide,

Eater of entrails, wallowing obscene

In pits where millions foam and rave and bark,

Mad dogs and idiots, thrice drunk with strife;

While Science towers above; -- a witch, red-winged:

Science we looked to for the light of life.

Curse me the men who make and sell iron ships,

Who walk the floor in thought, that they may find

Each powder prompt, each steel with fearful edge,

Each deadliest device against mankind.

Curse me the sleek lords with their plumes and spurs,

May Heaven give their land to peasant spades,

Give them the brand of Cain, for their pride's sake,

And felon's stripes for medals and for braids.

Curse me the fiddling, twiddling diplomats,

Haggling here, plotting and hatching there,

Who make the kind world but their game of cards,

Till millions die at turning of a hair.

What punishment will Heaven devise for these

Who win by others' sweat and hardihood,

Who make men into stinking vultures' meat,

Saying to evil still "Be thou my good"?

Ah, he who starts a million souls toward death

Should burn in utmost hell a million years!

-- Mothers of men go on the destined wrack

To give them life, with anguish and with tears: --

(C) 2013 Как раскрутить сайт навсегда   get cialis without a doctor prescription online