And in torment I turn away—but their march is over my heart.
They are helpless as drifting weed, they are stung with insane impatience
At themselves and their lords and their hunger no toil can feed till it sleeps.
They are racked earth hating the plow, they are dung at the roots of the nations,
They are wheat that will not be bread and burns at the scythe that reaps.
Ensigns of honor they bear not, their songs are ignorant clamors.
I hate their joy and their fear. I am bitter afraid of pain.
But the pitiful tune of their feet is trampling my soul with hammers,
And I must follow them out in the desolate face of the rain.
From the silken-furnitured halls, from the golden and pleasant places