Strange is the game of Rouge et Noir,—
Never a point have the little ones won.
The winners are strong and flushed with gain,
The losers are weak with want and pain,
And still the game goes on.
But those rich players grew so very few,
So many grew the poor ones, that one day
They rose up from that table, side by side,
Calm, countless, terrible—they rose and cried
In one great voice that shook the heavens wide,