[The Hangman]
|
The hangman's hands are dyed with blood, And all they touch or hold Is stained and streaked with clotted blood E'en to his bloody gold— The coins that are paid for human breath And the lives which he has sold. In scarlet hue stand old and new— His clothes, his board, his bed. There is blood in the cup he lifts up, And crimson in his bread; And e'en his floors and walls and doors Are marked with gory red. The hangman's face is dull and grey, And soulless are his eyes; That he may live from day to day, Some fellow-being dies. The tears of the young are naught to him, Nor ages stifled cries. He does not know the sob of woe; Black fear he does not know; Hardly a word from his lips are heard, And his ears heed no appeal. His cruel chin reveals within A nature hard as steel, The hangman's thoughts are not of love, Nor are they yet of hate; They do not lift themselves above The dungeon's iron gate; Their interests are the knotted rope And the heavy gallows weight. His mind is filled with the counted killed And the hope of more to come. And the price they fling when men must swing, Which makes a goodly sum; For his reason waits on the law's black hates, And, save for this, stands dumb. The hangman's soul lies stiff and stark. The hangman's heart is dead; And the need of friends is a burnt out spark For he is marked with the murder's mark. And with blood upon his head. In times of rest he knows no guest— No hand will touch him, none! Nor woman mild nor happy child Greets him when day is done; And he walks the night, a poison blight, An outcast of the sun |
[The Children of the Looms]
|
Oh, what are these that plod the road At dawn's first hour and evening's chime, Each back bent as beneath a load; Each sallow face afoul with grime? Nay, what are these whose little feet Scarce bear theme on to toil or bed! Do hearts within their bosoms beat? Surely, 'twere better that they were dead. Babes are they, domed to cruel dooms. Who labor all the livelong day; Who stand beside the roaring looms Nor ever turn their eyes away; Like parts of those machines of steel: Like wheels that whirl, like shuttles thrown; Without the power to dream or feel; With all of childishness. Brothers and sisters of the flowers, Fit playmates of the bird and bee. For you grow soft the springtime hours; For you the shade lies neath the tree. For you life smiles the whole day long; For you she breathes each breath in bliss, And turns all sound into song; And you, and you have come to this! Is't not enough that man should toil To fill the hands that clutch for gold? Is't not enough that women toil. And in life's summertime grow old? Is't not enough that death should pale To see men welcome him as rest; But must the children drudge and fall, And perish on the mothers breast? See, lovers, wed at tender eve; See, mothers, with your new-born young; See, fathers—if you can, believe; From infant blood, lo, wealth is wrung! See homes; see towns; see cities; states; Earth, show it to the skies above! Lovers who pass through rapture's gates, Are these, are these your fruits of love? O man who boast your lands subdued, Your conquered air, your oceans tamed, Who mold all nature to your mood, Look on these babes and be ashamed! Dull looks from out each weary face, Cold words upon each little tongue— Dead lives that know not childhoods grace, Grown old before they can be young. Hear, world of Mammon, brutal, bold, Goring with life the maw of greed, Measuring everything by gold; The good deed with the evil deed— The pangs of suffering childhoods care, Now coined in coins to fill a purse, These things shall haunt you everywhere, And rest upon you for a curse! |
[The Hymn of Labor]
|
The world was made with labor: Strong fusing air and fire Strove before the years of birth, With awful deed and dire, And wrought from primal chaos Amidst the ancient night. The seas and shores which are the earth, And shapes of morning light. Yea, bound in frenzied orbits, The solar substance sped With travail of the moon and stars, And planets live and dead; And wombed and birthed in anguish, As heirs of all its toil, Earth's vale and hill and ribs of rock, And the rivers in her soil. Life was formed by labor: From out of the bubbling ooze. By cosmic ferment molded well, And tropic suns and dews, With stress of chemic struggle Were built with warding care The potent powers of earth and sea, And the wings of all the air. Yea, through the mystic process Of crystallizing form, To green growths sprung across the land, And bloods of cold and warm, The vital stream of being In flooding efforts swirled, And beast and bird and swimming fish Made animate the world. Man was wrought by labor: Fierce things of growth and might, Where waring species hold their sway, Keen eared and clear of sight. Toiled in craft and cunning And strength of ripening brain, Till rose the form that grasped the world And made it his domain. Yea, with red feud and ravage Of saber tooth and claw. With banding of the pack for might And filled or starving maw; From floundering saurians welter, Through grin and screech of ape, Struggled the deathless seed of life Up to human shape. And man hath made with labor: From his wild primal hour, Potent with transforming deeds. He hath wed will to power; Through war and peace untiring, To industry and art, Spending the might of all his thought And the hope of all his heart. Yea, tried in stress of effort And passions wise and vain, His zeal hath gathered wisdoms seed From fruits of joy and pain. His millioned cities echo; His ships have pathed the sea; And with bent brow he toils to make The world that yet will be. |