ABSTRACT
A hundred thousand million mites we go Wheeling and tacking o’er the eternal plain, Some black with death-and some are white with woe. Who sent us forth? Who takes us home again?
And there is sound of hymns of praise-to whom? And curses-on whom curses?—snap the air. And there is hope goes hand in hand with gloom, And blood and indignation and despair….
