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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=374253" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Two Voices</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">COUNTRY</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'SWEET are the lanes and the hedges, the fields made red with the clover, <br>With tall field-sorrel, and daisies, and golden buttercups glowing; <br>Sweet is the way through the woods, where at sundown maiden and lover <br>Linger by stile or by bank where wild clematis is growing. <br>Fair is our world when the dew and the dawn thrill the half-wakened roses, <br>Fair when the corn-fields grow warm with poppies in noonlight gleaming, <br>Fair through the long afternoon, when hedges and hay-fields lie dreaming, <br>Fair as in lessening light the last convolvulus closes </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>'Scent of geranium and musk that in cottage windows run riot, <br>Breath from the grass that is down in the meadows each side the highway, <br>Slumberous hush of the churchyard where we one day may lie quiet, <br>Murmuring wind through the leaves bent over the meadow byway, <br>Deeps of cool shadow, and gleams of light on high elm-tops shining, <br>Such peace in the dim green brake as the town, save in dreams, knows never, <br>But in, through, under it all, the old pain follows us ever-- <br>Ever the old despair, the old unrest and repining. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>'Dark is the City's face; but her children who know her find her <br>Mother to them who are brothers, mindful of brotherhood's duty; <br>To each of us, lonely, unhelped, the grave would be warmer, kinder, <br>Than the cold unloving face of our world of blossom and beauty. <br>Poverty deep and dark cowers under the thatch with the swallows, <br>Cruel disease lies hid in the changeful breast of the waters, <br>Drink sets snares for our sons, and shame digs graves for our daughters, <br>Want and care crush the flower of a youth that no life-fruit follows. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>'What are the woodland sweets--the meadow's fair flowery treasure-- <br>When we are hungry and sad, and stupid with work and with sorrows? <br>Leisure for nothing but sleep, and with heart but for sleep in our leisure; <br>The work of to-day still the same as yesterday's work, and to-morrow's. <br>Ever the weary round--the treadmill of innocent lives-- <br>Hopeless and helpless, and bowing our backs like a hound's to the lashes; <br>What can seem fair to the eyes that are smarting and sore with the ashes <br>Blown from the fires that consume the souls of our children and wives? </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>'Dreams sometimes we have had of an hour when we might speak plainly, <br>Raise the mantle and show how the iron eats into our bosom, <br>The rotting root of the Nation, the worm at the heart of its blossom, <br>Dreaming we said, 'We will speak, when the time for it comes, not vainly.' <br>Ah--but the time comes never--Life, we are used to bear it, <br>Starved are our brains and grow not, our hands are fit but for toiling, <br>If we stretched them out their touch to our masters' hand would be soiling; <br>Weak is our voice with disuse--too weak for our lords to hear it!' </div><div style="margin:10px 0"></div><div style="margin:10px 0">CITY</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'So has the spark died out that the torch of hope dropped among you? <br>So is the burden bound more fast to the shrinking shoulder? <br>Far too faint are your cries to be heard by the men who wrong you? <br>And if they heard they are high, and the air as men rise grows colder! <br>Yet you are men though so weak, and in mine and workshop your brothers, <br>Stronger in head, and in heart not less sad, for deliverance are striving; <br>These will stand fast, and will face the cruel unjust and ungiving, <br>And you in our ranks shall be 'listed, our hands fast clasped in each other's! </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>'For in the night of our sorrow cold lights are breaking and brightening <br>Out in the eastern sky; through the drifting clouds, wind-driven, <br>Over the earth new gleams and glories are laughing and lightening, <br>Clearer the air grows each moment, brighter the face of the heaven. <br>Turn we our face to the east--oh, wind of the dawn, blow to us <br>Freshness and strength and resolve! The star of old faith grows paler <br>Before the eyes of our Freedom, though still wrath's red mists veil her, <br>For this is our battle day; revenge, like our blood, runs through us. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>'This is our vengeance day. Our masters, made fat with our fasting, <br>Shall fall before us like corn when the sickle for harvest is strong: <br>Old wrong shall give might to our arm--remembrance of wrong shall make lasting <br>The graves we will dig for the tyrants we bore with too much and too long. <br>The sobs of our starving children, the tears of our heart-sick mothers, <br>The moan of your murdered manhood crushed out by their wanton pressure, <br>The wail of the life-long anguish that paid the price of their pleasure, <br>These will make funeral music to speed the lost souls of them, brothers! </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>'Shoulder to shoulder we march, and for those who go down mid the fighting <br>With rifles in hand and pikes, and the red flag over them flying, <br>Glad shall our hearts be for them--who die when our sun is lighting <br>The warm, wide heavens, and sheds its lovely light on their dying. <br>Fight, though we lose our dearest--fight, though the battle rages <br>Fiercer and hotter than ever was fight in the world before: <br>We must fight--how can men do less? If we die, what can men do more? <br>And the sun of Freedom shall shine across our graves to the ages!'</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Edith+Nesbit">Edith Nesbit</a><div class=q>
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'SWEET are the lanes and the hedges, the fields made red with the clover, 
With tall field-sorrel, and daisies, and golden buttercups glowing; 
Sweet is the way through the woods, where at sundown maiden and lover 
Linger by stile or by b..."></div>
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