14 CIHNTS FOi? SOCIALISTS. Hark, the wind in the elm boughs ! From L'.>ndonit bloweth, And telleth of gold, and of hope and unrest ; Of power that helps not; of wisdom that knoweth, But teacheth not aught of thfl worst and tho best. Of the rich men it telleth, and strange is the story How they have, and they hanker, and grip far and wide; And they Jive and they die, and the earth and its glory Has been but a burden they scarce might nb:de. Hark ! the March wind again of a people is tolling ; Of the life that they live there, so haggard and grim, That if we and our love amidst them had been dwelling My fondness had faltered, thy beauty grown dim. This land we have loved in our love and our leisure For them hangs in heann, high out of their reach ; The wide hills o'er the sea-pla.in for them have no pleasure, The grey homes of their fathers no story to teach. The singers have sung and the builders have builded, The painters ha.ve fa.shioned their tales of delight; For what and for whom hath the world's book been gilded, When all ia for these but the blackness of night 1 How long, and for what is their patience abiding 1 How oft and how oft shall their story be told, While the hope that none seeketh in darkness is hiding, And in grief and in sorrow the world groweth old 1 • • Come back to the inn, love, and the lights and the fire, And the fiddler's old tune and the ahufiling of feet ; For there in a while shall be rest and desire, And there shall the m~rrow's uprising be sweet, Bib ioteca Gino Bianco
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