Ii

Half stun’d I look around And see a land of death— Dead bones that walk the ground And dead bones underneath;

A race of wretches caught Between the palms of Need And rub’d to utter naught, The chaff of human seed;

And all like stricken leaves, Despondent multitudes The wind of winter drives About the broken woods.

The toiler tills the field, But at his bosom coil’d The blood-leach makes him yield The pence for which he toil’d,

And grows and drops off fat From these poor breathless ones, Who know not this or that But work themselves to bones;

And this one fever’d flags, And that one hopeless tries, Or uncomplaining drags A giant leg, and dies.

* * * * *