Written today, and read today,
And stale the news tomorrow!—
Upon the sands I build... I play!
I play, and weep in sorrow:
“Ah God, dear God! to find cessation
From this soul-crushing occupation!
If but one year ere Thou dost call me Thither,
Lord, at this blighting task let me not wither.”
[Pen and Shears]
My tailor’s shears I scornèd then;
I strove for something higher:
To edit news—live by the pen—
The pen that shall not tire!
The pen, that was my humble slave,
Has now enslaved its master;
And fast as flows its Midas-wave,
My rebel tears flow faster.
The world I clad once, tailor-hired,
Whilst I in tatters quakèd,
Today, you see me well attired,
Who lets the world go naked.
What human soul, how’er oppressed,
Can feel my chained soul’s yearning!
A monster woe lies in my breast,
In voiceless anguish burning.
Oh, swing ajar the shop door, do!
I’ll bear as ne’er I bore it.
My blood!... you sweatshop leeches, you!...
Now less I’ll blame you for it.
I’ll stitch as ne’er in former years;
I’ll drive the mad wheel faster;
Slave will I be but to the shears;
The pen shall know its master!
[For Hire]
Work with might and main,
Or with hand and heart,
Work with soul and brain,
Or with holy art,
Thread, or genius’ fire—
Make a vest, or verse—
If ’tis done for hire,
It is done the worse.