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ANONYMOUS.
Stalking lords of all around us, blinded with our petty pride,
Higher, maybe, than the savage whom we scoff at and deride.
Where the deeds that we can point to worthy of our father's name?
Where the single gleam of glory in the darkness of our shame?
Where the broad and furrowed foreheads, watchers for all human kind,
Radiant with the thoughtful paleness, signal of the earnest mind?
Anonymous.
