Prometheus

All day beneath the bleak indifferent skies,
Broken and blind, a shivering bag of bones,
He trudges over icy paving-stones.
And Matches! Matches! Matches! Matches! cries.

And now beneath the dismal dripping night
And shadowed by a deeper night he stands —
And yet he holds within his palsied hands
Quick fire enough to set his world alight.
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