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AUGUST, 1901
  
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194

AUGUST, 1901

SONNET

At home a war of voices never still;
No leader found, no sane or clear desire;
Not even passion that with fierce wild fire
If it destroys, at the very least can thrill.
Abroad, the immense black hatred that would kill,
Had it the power, all souls that yet aspire.
No strong note sounded, save from Watson's lyre:
No singleness of heart, or brain, or will.
What hope in this? What hope save still to grasp
The one great thought that raised us heretofore
And placed an Empire's crown within our hands
And all life's fairest jewels in our clasp—
That Freedom's foot should range from shore to shore
And Love lift up her gaze from subject lands.