And the rotund Bishop's words were as the crackling of dry thorns
Under a pot, bubbling without use in the desert of dreary
platitudes.
The story he told was spiced and garnished with profane words,
Whereat the Leaders laughed in their cups, making great show of
merriment,
So that the banquet-hall rang, and wine was spilt on the linen.
Wine as red as blood--the blood of the shattered miner,
Blood of the boy in the rifle-pits, blood of the coughing
child-slave,
Blood of the mangled trainman, blood that the Carpenter shed.
And still I watched the Socialist. Sober, judicial, observant
And full of greater wisdom he was than to laugh with the tipsy
Leaders.
His eyes were fixed on the Bishop, vice-regent of God upon earth.
And as I watched the Socialist, the unmoved, the contemplative one,
He thoughtfully took his pencil, he took the fine and large card
Whereon the names of the rich foods and all the costly wines were
printed,
And made a few notes of the feast, notes of the Bishop's speech,
Notes to remind him to search the slums for the great, God-given
prosperity,
Which all the Judges, Lawmakers, Captains and Leaders knew to be
"our" portion;
Notes of the flowers, the wine, the lights, the music, the splendor,
Notes of the Leaders' oratory, notes of the Bishop's deep-voiced
unctiousness,
Notes he made; and as I looked at the notes he was carefully
writing,
The words ran red like wine and blood, they blazed like the blazing
lights!
Words they were of blood and fire, that spread, that filled the
banquet-hall.
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