The Toilers
Their blind feet drift in the darkness, and no one is leading;
Their toil is the pasture, where hyens and harpies are feeding;
In all lands and always, the wronged, the homeless, the humbled
Till the cliff-like pride of the spoiler is shaken and crumbled,
Till the Pillars of Hell are uprooted and left to their ruin,
And a rose garden gladdens the places no rose ever blew in,
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