How silent are the streets of this grave town;

Discordant vanity is swept away,

And mourners everywhere pass up and down,

Sombring the radiance of an April day.

Here all men wear the inward, brooding look

Of a young mother, when her time is near,

Devoid of fear.

She knows the agony of hope still-born,

And, once before, her body racked and torn

Was at the last denied its victory.

How can we understand,

Whose land inviolate was clogged with dreams?

They with a single purpose are imbued,

That like a mighty river onward streams

In multitudinous channels ruthlessly,

Past tangled isles and barriers of sand,

Until its irresistible waters roll

To their triumphal goal,

With all-embracing, silent fortitude.