THE PIONEERS
Current Opinion. Volume LIV. Page 497. (First published in The Coming Nation.)
We're the men that always march a bit before
Tho we cannot tell the reason for the same;
We're the fools that pick the lock that holds the door—
Play and lose and pay the candle for the game.
There's no blaze nor trail nor roadway where we go;
There's no painted post to point the right-of-way,
But we swing our sweat-grained helves, and we chop a path ourselves
To Tomorrow from the land of Yesterday.
It's infrequent that we're popular at home,
(Like King David we're not built for tending sheep,)
And we scoff at living a la metronome,
And quite commonly we're cynical and cheap.
True—we cannot hold a job to save our lives;
We're a dreamy lot and steady work's a bore—
'Til the luring of the Quest routs us out from sleep and rest
And we rope and tie the world and call for more.
Well, they try to hold us back by foolish words—
But we go ahead and do the thing we've planned;
Then they drive us out to shelter with the birds—
And the ravens bring our breakfast to our hand.
So they jail us and we lecture to the guards;
They beat us—we make sermons of their whips;
They feed us melted lead and behold the Word is said.
That shall burn upon a million living lips.
Are we fighters?......By our fellows we are fanged.
Are we workers?......Paid with blows we never earned.
Are we doctors?......Other doctors see us hanged.
Are we teachers?......Brother teachers have us burned.
But through all a Something somehow holds us fast
'Spite of every beast-hung brake and steaming fen;
And we keep the torch on high till a comrade presses by
When we pass it on and die—and live again!