  A riot-maker! Can the fruit Of frenzy be a gracious thing? His soul has hands; above the bruit They lift a song-bird quivering. World-wrecker! Shall he trampling go Till Beauty's drenched and lonely eyes Mourn a deserted earth? But no! Men go not down till men arise. The game is Life's. She plays to win; And whirls to dust her overlings; Her abluent winds shall spare no sin, Though hidden in the breast of kings; And Earth is smiling as she takes To her old lap their fallen bones, For down the throbbing ways there wakes The laughter of her greater sons. |
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