Sonnets By Emily Pfeiffer: Revised and Enlarged Ed. |
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Sonnets | ||
31
III.
Blind Cyclops, hurling stones of destiny,
And not in fury!—working bootless ill,
In mere vacuity of mind and will—
Man's soul revolts against thy work and thee!
Slaves of a despot, conscienceless and nil,
Slaves, by mad chance befooled to think them free,
We still might rise, and with one heart agree
To mar the ruthless grinding of thy mill!
And not in fury!—working bootless ill,
In mere vacuity of mind and will—
Man's soul revolts against thy work and thee!
Slaves of a despot, conscienceless and nil,
Slaves, by mad chance befooled to think them free,
We still might rise, and with one heart agree
To mar the ruthless grinding of thy mill!
Dead tyrant, tho' our cries and groans pass by thee,
Man, cutting off from each new “tree of life”
Himself, its fatal flower, could still defy thee,
In waging on thy work eternal strife,—
The races come and coming evermore,
Heaping with hecatombs thy dead-sea shore.
Man, cutting off from each new “tree of life”
Himself, its fatal flower, could still defy thee,
In waging on thy work eternal strife,—
The races come and coming evermore,
Heaping with hecatombs thy dead-sea shore.
Sonnets | ||