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18

42

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[[strikethrough]] HUMANITY IS [[/strikethrough]] AT THE GATES

Down with your roses into the dust,
Let the lips of your song be sealed-
Snatch [[strikethrough]] thy best [[/strikethrough]] manhood's sword from [[strikethrough]] its [[/strikethrough]] the scabbard of rust
And strike till this curse be healed.

[[strikethrough]] No more songs [[/strikethrough]] Let us hymn no more to [[strikethrough]] Pan and [[strikethrough]] Apollo and Pan!
[[strikethrough]] There is no time [[/strikethrough]] What use in the face of  [[strikethrough]] such [[/strikethrough]] a wrong
To be wasting [[strikethrough]] our vigor [[/strikethrough]] the life and the [[strikethrough]] light [[/strikethrough]] strength of a man
[[strikethrough]] Such [[/strikethrough]] In a cowardly, meaningless song[[strikethrough]]s[[/strikethrough]]

We are wearing [[strikethrough]] soft garments and raiment [[/strikethrough]] thy linen and purple rich woven [[strikethrough]] of hearts fibre [[/strikethrough]] made of heart and [[underlined]] soul [[/underlined]] and brain of the children who strain, and [[strikethrough]] of [[/strikethrough]] the women who stitch 
Till their eyes burn out with their pain.

Oh! Down with the roses into the dust! 
Let the lips of your song be sealed! 
Awake your sword from the skabbord of rust and strike till this wrong be healed!