Songs, Merry and Sad by John Charles McNeill
page 23 of 71 (32%)
page 23 of 71 (32%)
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A money-measured heart,
Procrustean cut, and, with old echoes, ringing Its bells about the mart? The race moves on, and leaves no wildernesses Where rugged voices cry; It reads its prayer, and with set phrase it blesses The souls of men who die, And step by even step its rank progresses, An army marshalled by. If it be better so, that Babel noises, Losing all course and ken, And grief that wails and gladness that rejoices Should never wake again To shock a world of modulated voices And mediocre men, Then he is blest who wears the painted feather And may not turn about To dusks when muses romped the dewy heather In unrestricted rout And dawns when, if the stars had sung together, The sons of God would shout! Oblivion |
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