clouds mocking us with their
transient lightning laughter.
Suddenly they have stopped, become a prodigy,
And men must stand before them saying:
"We do not fear you, O Monster! for we have lived every day by
conquering you,
"And we die with the faith that Peace is true, and Good is true,
and true is the eternal One!"

If the Deathless dwell not in the heart of death,
If glad wisdom bloom not bursting the sheath of sorrow,
If sin do not die of its own revealment,
If pride break not under its load of decorations,
Then whence comes the hope that drives these men from their homes
like stars rushing to their death in the morning light?
Shall the value of the martyrs' blood and mothers' tears be
utterly lost in the dust of the earth, not buying Heaven with
their price?
And when Man bursts his mortal bounds, is not the Boundless
revealed that moment?

LXXXV

THE SONG OF THE DEFEATED

My Master has bid me while I stand at the roadside, to sing the
song of Defeat, for that is the bride whom He woos in secret.

She has put on the dark veil, hiding her face from the crowd, but
the jewel glows on her breast in the dark.

She is forsaken of the day, and God's night is waiting for her
with its lamps lighted and flowers wet with dew.

She is silent with her eyes downcast; she has left her home
behind her, from her home has come that wailing in the wind.

But the stars are singing the love-song of the eternal to a face
sweet with shame and suffering.

The door has been opened in the lonely chamber, the call has
sounded, and the heart of the darkness throbs with awe because of
the coming tryst.

LXXXVI

THANKSGIVING

Those who walk on the path of pride crushing the lowly life under
their tread, covering the tender green of the earth with their
footprints in blood;

Let them rejoice, and thank thee, Lord, for the day is theirs.

But I am thankful that my lot lies with the humble who suffer and
bear the burden of power, and hide their faces and stifle their
sobs in the dark.

For every throb of their pain has pulsed in the secret depth of
thy night, and every insult has been gathered into thy great
silence. And the morrow is theirs.

O Sun, rise upon the bleeding hearts blossoming in flowers of the
morning, and the torchlight revelry of pride shrunken to ashes.

THE END

End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Fruit