The Reward Of Labour Is Life. Is

In Prison Wearily, Drearily, Half The Day Long, Flap The Great Banners High Over The Stone; Strangely And Eerily Sounds The Wind's Song, Bending The Banner-poles. While, All Alone, Watching The Loophole's Spark, Lie I, With Life All Dark, Feet Tethered, Hands Fettered Fast To The Stone, The Grim Walls, Square Lettered With Prisoned Men's Groan. Still Strain The Banner-poles Through The Wind's Song, Westward The Banner Rolls Over My Wrong.

I Know A Little Garden Close Set Thick With Lily And Red Rose, Where I Would Wander If I Might From Dewy Dawn To Dewy Night. And Have One With Me Wandering.

From Out The Throng And Stress Of Lies, From Out The Painful Noise Of Sighs, One Voice Of Comfort Seems To Rise: "it Is The Meaner Part That Dies."

One Man With An Idea In His Head Is In Danger Of Being Considered A Madman: Two Men With The Same Idea In Common May Be Foolish, But Can Hardly Be Mad; Ten Men Sharing An Idea Begin To Act, A Hundred Draw Attention As Fanatics, A Thousand And Society Begins To Tremble, A Hundred Thousand And There Is War Abroad, And The Cause Has Victories Tangible And Real; And Why Only A Hundred Thousand? Why Not A Hundred Million And Peace Upon The Earth? You And I Who Agree Together, It Is We Who Have To Answer That Question.

A World Made To Be Lost, - A Bitter Life 'twixt Pain And Nothing Tost.