Breathe deep, and start, to see him pass the door.
His head is bowed. He thinks on men and kings,
Yea, when the sick world cries, how can he sleep?
Too many peasants fight, they know not why,
Too many homesteads in black terror weep.
The sins of all the war-lords burn his heart,
He sees the dreadnoughts scouring every main.
He carries on his shawl-wrapped shoulders now
The bitterness, the folly and the pain.
He can not rest until a spirit-dawn