TRUTH: Revolution, your redeemer !
POET: There will be for all joy beyond all joy forever.
TRUTH: And dreams beyond all dreams.
XV. POET: The Desert-warbler caresses the Dawn, And the lark tops the world with song. But Spring wakes not for the oppressed, Neither in this desert, nor in the green valleys. In vain she entices them into her chamber Where the daffodils are begotten. There is no stir of joy in their blood Because the world is new-born. No fragrance in the laughter of the grass ; No delight in the flowers gleeful of their resurrection. They are even ignorant of the tang of the damp, delicious,
new-ploughed fields; The feet of Dawn are before the gates, Behind the purple mountains, where the sky is silver. The lark is saluting his footsteps, And the awakening East is listening. Upon the tip of a sage-brush the warbler prays. Unafraid of the solitude ; undismayed in the bigness of
the universe. Like a little acolyte, in grey robes, He salutes the Dawn,
Which casts off suddenly his diaphanous mantle And tosses into the air his necklace of jewels ; Firing the sky with golden banners and transmuting The sand and rocks into gold. The world is melted in a golden crucible. He shoots his fiery arrows to the zenith
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