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CHILDREN OF DARKNESS, by                    
First Line: In the arctic's solemn whiteness
Last Line: "my children, my children, yet of the night."


I

In the Arctic's solemn whiteness,
In the torrid's burning drearness,
In the aerie of the mountains,
On the plains and on the hilltops,
In the city's beehive buildings,
On expanse of flowing water,
Men are weaving, ever weaving
Fabric from the threads of life.

II

Shrill the song of the pleasure halls,
Sound of the revel lifts and falls,
Gay and daring the weavers spin,
Riot in color, riot in din,
The cloth of life is carmine.

Stirring the strain the doers sing,
Cosmic cry of a world on the wing,
Art, the crafts, and the hand of fate
Whirring the wheel to the ultimate,
A part of the endless paean.

Earth revolves to the workman's song,
Caught as it lustily floats along,
Aeons echo the sound of their tread,
Weaving their strong, durable thread,
Into the warp of the ages.

III

Destiny peers with unshadowed eyes:
"With the yarn of desire the shuttle flies:
My little ones weave with a burning thread
They weave, alas! with a blackened shred,
A faulty loom and a tangled skein,
With hands that falter again and again:
But ever so often a line of gold
Comes shining through in an ample fold.
They work by the light of the dim within,
They fashion their longings, their cravings spin --
Each his own lantern, each his own light,
My children, my children, yet of the night."





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