Who are these in rags and sheepskin, mangy fur-caps, matted hair? Who are these with fearsome whiskers, black and wiry everywhere? Who are these in blanket putties--canvas, rag, or green-hide shoes? These with greasy bags and bundles grimy as the Russian flues? Never song nor cheer amongst them, never cry of "What's the News?" Packed on cattle-trains and ox-carts, from the north and south and east; Trudging from the marsh and forest, where the man is like the beast? On the lonely railway platforms, bending round the village priest; Here and there the village scholar, everywhere the country clowns? They're reservists of old Russia pouring in to Russian towns!
Women's faces, gaunt and haggard, start and startle here and there, White and whiter by the contrast to the shawls that hide their hair. Black-shawled heads--the shrouds of sorrow! Eyes of Fear without a name! Through the length and breadth of Europe, God! their eyes are all the same! Famous Artist of the Present, wasting Art and wasting Life, With your daughters for your models, or your everlasting wife-- With your kids for nymphs and fairies, or your Studies in "the Nood"-- Exercise imagination, and forget your paltry brood! Take an old Bulgarian widow who has lost her little store, Who has lost her sons in battle, paint her face, and call it "War."
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