To the Children of the Muse
None shall put forth a hand and twist the brass
That galls the neck of Liberty, none dare
Avert the iron stigma of despair
And show our eyes how good the battle was.
Yet now for you who, 'mid the blowing grass
That hides the grave of honour, sit and stare
In the great muteness of forgotten prayer —
The vengeance of the Lord has come to pass!
They fester in their cities who have scarred
The face of earth until her skeleton
Is naked, and her breasts are dry and hard;
Say, shall ye tear the world's dishevelled robe
And lay her ulcers open to the sun,
Or murmur soft, " Thy will be done! " like Job?
That galls the neck of Liberty, none dare
Avert the iron stigma of despair
And show our eyes how good the battle was.
Yet now for you who, 'mid the blowing grass
That hides the grave of honour, sit and stare
In the great muteness of forgotten prayer —
The vengeance of the Lord has come to pass!
They fester in their cities who have scarred
The face of earth until her skeleton
Is naked, and her breasts are dry and hard;
Say, shall ye tear the world's dishevelled robe
And lay her ulcers open to the sun,
Or murmur soft, " Thy will be done! " like Job?
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