And far above the fevered gaze of them who are upon the ground,
whose bodies are layered with the dregs of the earth and the wasted
fields, the phantom cohort flows from the four corners of the
horizon, drives back the sky's infinity and hides its blue deeps.
And they are legion. They are not only the warrior caste who shout
as they fight and have joy of it, not only those whom universal
slavery has clothed in magic power, the mighty by birth, who tower
here and there above the prostration of the human race and will take
their sudden stand by the scales of justice when they think they see
great profit to gain; not only these, but whole multitudes who
minister consciously or unconsciously to their fearful privilege.
"There are those who say," now cries one of the somber and
compelling talkers, extending his hand as though he could see the
pageant, "there are those who say, 'How fine they are!'"
"And those who say, 'The nations hate each other!'"
"And those who say, 'I get fat on war, and my belly matures on it!'"
"And those who say, 'There has always been war, so there always will
be!'"
"There are those who say, 'I can't see farther than the end of my
nose, and I forbid others to see farther!'"
"There are those who say, 'Babies come into the world with either
red or blue breeches on!'"
"There are those," growled a hoarse voice, "who say, 'Bow your head
and trust in God!'"
* * * * * *
Ah, you are right, poor countless workmen of the battles, you who
have made with your bands all of the Great War, you whose
omnipotence is not yet used for well-doing, you human host whose
every face is a world of sorrows, you who dream bowed under the yoke
of a thought beneath that sky where long black clouds rend
themselves and expand in disheveled lengths like evil angels--yes,
you are right.
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