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de CLEYRE, Voltairine “Night at the Grave in Waldheim”
Article published on 17 September 2009
last modification on 25 April 2015

by r-c.
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Published in The Worm Turns

Quiet they lie in their shrouds of rest,
Their lids kissed close ’neath the lips of peace;
Over each pulseless and painless breast
The hands lie folded and softly pressed,
As a dead dove presses a broken nest;
Ah, broken hearts were the price of these!
The lips of their anguish are cold and still,
For them are the clouds and the gloom all past;
No longer the woe of the world can thrill
The chords of those tender hearts, or fill
The silent dead- house! The "people’s will"
Has snapped asunder the strings at last.
"The people’s will!" Ah, in years to come,
Dearly ye’ll weep that ye did not save!
Do ye not hear now the muffled drum,
The trampling feet and the ceaseless hum,
Of the million marchers— trembling, dumb,
In their tread to a yawning, giant grave?

arrow On web : See the whole poem on the "Encyclopedia" of the Recollection books website

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