Buddha ! my earthly memory is so dimmed By this poor passing life which travels a hem Across my soul, and thought I cannot stem Pours like a flood to
I sit alone in the twilight, Dreaming — but not as of old; Blind to the flickering fire-light, Mystic visions my spirit enfold. What means this struggle within me, This
Howling roars in the slaughter houses Who hears it? Where does it ring to? To GOD Blood streams in the slaughter houses Who sees it? Where does it flow to?
