Trump’s campaign manager

Thou Mother with Thy Equal Brood
Rouse up my slow belief, give me some vision of the future
Up through the darkness
Moving with steady motion, swaying to and fro to the right and left
Pioneers! O pioneers!
She had no work to give her, but she gave her remembrance and fondness
As the ranks returning worn and sweaty, as the men file by where stand
Mortar, these dead floors, windows, rails, you call the church?
And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring taken

In the grandeur and exquisiteness of old age
Good as the engineers, he can make every word he speaks draw blood
Not the pilot has charged himself to bring his ship into port
Mightier than Egypts tombs
As they fall on their knees and rise again
Nor any thing in the earth, or down in the oldest graves of the earth
And below there where the boys were drilling, and up the slopes they ran
Give me fresh corn and wheat, give me serene-moving animals teaching
Every one that sleeps is beautiful, every thing in the dim light is
Realities of life, and go toward false realities

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