By all the graves of Labor's dead,
By Labor's deathless flag of red,
We make a solemn vow to you,—
We'll keep the faith; we will be true.
For Freedom laughs at prison bars
Her voice re-echoes from the stars;
Proclaiming with the tempest's breath
A Cause beyond the reach of death!
TO FRANCE
(May Day, 1919)
Mother of revolutions, stern and sweet,
Thou of the red Commune's heroic days;
Unsheathe thy sword, let thy pent lightning blaze
Until these new bastiles fall at thy feet.
Once more thy sons march down the ancient street
Led by pale men from silent Pere la Chaise;
Once more La Carmignole—La Marseillaise
Blend with the war drum's quick and angry beat.
Ah, France—our—France—must they again endure
The crown of thorns upon the cross of death?
Is morning here . . .? Then speak that we may know!
The sky seems lighter but we are not sure.
Is morning here . . .? The whole world holds its breath
To hear the crimson Gallic rooster crow!
VILLANELLE
(Torquato Tasso from his cell at Ste. Anne, 1548)
Her beauty haunts me everywhere—
A lone lark singing as it flies—
Sweet, O sweet beyond compare.
Amber and gold meet in her hair,
Dark pools and starlight in her eyes;
Her beauty haunts me everywhere.