Classic Poem

I sang a song to the wind, I did, —
The night wind heard, and for shame he hid;
I sang aloud and alone.

It's a terrible thing when the wind asks why
Truth can be trampled with a blasphemous lie,
And the liar not made to atone!

I told a tale to the stars above,
The calm, stern stars that listen with love
To a wounded soul's distress.

It's a horrible thing when the stars of night,
Blanche as they gaze from their giddy height
At a wrong that cries for redress, —

When the stars of the sky blanche and ask why
Truth can be strangled with a murdering lie,
Why — in the name of grace! —

Will a sodden world so greedily feed
On the poisoned bread that Power and Greed
Smile to throw in its face!

O God, strike down the liar, if Thou art just,
Purge Thou the credulous world with a gust
Of Thy fiery breath!

O God, if there be a God, no, — do not so;
Only make them understand, and lo! —
Fold me in death.