For I have beheld her, the princess,

Firelight and starlight her eyes.

Pauper I am, I would woo her.

And--let me drink wine, to begin,

Though the Koran expressly forbids it."

"I AM YOUR SLAVE," said the Jinn.

"Plan me a dome," said Aladdin,

"That is drawn like the dawn of the MOON,

When the sphere seems to rest on the mountains,

Half-hidden, yet full-risen soon."

"Build me a dome," said Aladdin,

"That shall cause all young lovers to sigh,

The fullness of life and of beauty,

Peace beyond peace to the eye--

A palace of foam and of opal,

Pure moonlight without and within,

Where I may enthrone my sweet lady."

"I AM YOUR SLAVE," said the Jinn.

XV. The Strength of the Lonely

(What the Mendicant Said)

The moon's a monk, unmated,

Who walks his cell, the sky.

His strength is that of heaven-vowed men

Who all life's flames defy.

They turn to stars or shadows,

They go like snow or dew--

Leaving behind no sorrow--

Only the arching blue.

Fifth Section

War. September 1, 1914 Intended to be Read Aloud

I. Abraham Lincoln Walks at Midnight

(In Springfield, Illinois)

It is portentous, and a thing of state

That here at midnight, in our little town

A mourning figure walks, and will not rest,

Near the old court-house pacing up and down,

Or by his homestead, or in shadowed yards

He lingers where his children used to play,

Or through the market, on the well-worn stones

He stalks until the dawn-stars burn away.

A bronzed, lank man! His suit of ancient black,

A famous high top-hat and plain worn shawl

Make him the quaint great figure that men love,

The prairie-lawyer, master of us all.

He cannot sleep upon his hillside now.

He is among us:--as in times before!

And we who toss and lie awake for long

Breathe deep, and start, to see him pass the door.

His head is bowed. He thinks on men and kings.

Yea, when the sick world cries, how can he sleep?

Too many peasants fight, they know not why,

Too many homesteads in black terror weep.

The sins of all the war-lords burn his heart.

He sees the dreadnaughts scouring every main.

He carries on his shawl-wrapped shoulders now

The bitterness, the folly and the pain.

He cannot rest until a spirit-dawn

Shall come;--the shining hope of Europe free:

The league of sober folk, the Workers' Earth,

Bringing long peace to Cornland, Alp and Sea.

It breaks his heart that kings must murder still,

That all his hours of travail here for men

Seem yet in vain. And who will bring white peace

That he may sleep upon his hill again?

II. A Curse for Kings

A curse upon each king who leads his state,

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