Molten streams of light

Pour upon Shadowland's children; And for those brief hours

They emerge from the shadows

And rejoice in the world where they

Are outcasts.

Wealth passes in ermine cloaks

And glances sideways.

Moonbeams dance on their faces.

Jeering faces, sometimes, sometimes pitying.

But the shadows do not care.

Or pretend not to care.

They carry on their wild bacchanal;

They trade their wares. . . often sad wares

And worthless.

Or they quietly take their stands

For the sake of comradeship and

Moonlit air.

But they are invincible.

They are the soul of Rittenhouse

And the constitution.

They are the legend of Rittenhouse

And the open secret.

Its heart, the core of its fascination.

And still Rittenhouse is beautiful And the children of the rich play there In the sun.

2.2

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