The workers of the world, God’s chosen people,
Are crossing the Red Sea of Revolution.
And I behold the Industrial Commonwealth,
The Promised Land of plenty and of peace,
Where each one, under his own fig-tree seated,
Shall sing his praises to the Lord of Life.
THE TOILERS
Crouching they cling like vermin to the earth
And with their bleeding fingers scrape the earth
But for a little dust, their sustenance,