JEAN CHRISTOPHE called to him out of the night — Out of the storm and dark of Europe's hate, Crying: "Where art thou, Hauptmann, who so late Loomed as a rugged tower of human right? Flame to the world thy lonely beacon-light Of love for alien hearths laid desolate!" — In answer rolled a voice infuriate Hoarse with the fog of racial scorn and spite: "Here am I! — Let them perish!" And hell laughed To hear that voice — which once was wont to soar With Hannele to heaven, and starward waft The souls of simple weavers — rasp with war; Yea, laughed to watch that tower's heroic shaft Fall crumbling on the beaconless world shore. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SOLOMON TO SHEBA by WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS DREAM-PEDLARY by THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES AN ORDER FOR A PICTURE by ALICE CARY MODERN LOVE: 17 by GEORGE MEREDITH A LULLABY by THOMALLY HOLBECH ANDERSON |