Bars and Shadows | Page 6

all that are;?And in due time will strew their dust afar,?And singing, he will shout their doom at last?To a laughing star.
O cleansing warrior wind, stronger than death,?Wiser than men may know;?O smite these stubborn walls and lay them low,?Uproot and rend them with your mighty breath--?Blow, wild wind, blow!
TO FREEDOM
Out on the "lookout" in the wind and sleet,?Out in the woods of fir and spruce and pine,?Down in the hot slopes of the dripping mine?We dreamed of you and Oh, the dream was sweet!?And now you bless the felon food we eat?And make each iron cell a sacred shrine;?For when your love thrills in the blood like wine,?The very stones grow holy to our feet.
We shall be faithful though we march with Death?And singing storm the barricades of Wrong,?For life is such a little thing to give.?We shall fight on as long as we have breath--?Love in our hearts and on our lips a song--?Without you it were better not to live!
THE VISION MAKER
To EUGENE VICTOR DEBS
Christ-like he spoke. While angry cannon roared,?His vision tinged the torn and bleeding skies,?Men heard in him their own dumb anguished cries,?The heavens seemed to open at his word.?Give us a victim, shouted Caesar's horde,?From his black pyre red warnings shall arise,?The vision perishes, the prophet dies. . .?His truth is far more deadly than our sword!
And deadlier his dream--a quenchless flame,?For which no dungeon fastness can be built . . .?You have but made the convict half divine,?Crowned Truth with martyrdom, yourselves with shame;?Not he, but you are branded deep with guilt;?His cell is holier than your highest shrine.
DISTANCES
Above the moist earth, tremulous and bright,?The stars creep forth--stars that I cannot see;?And to my cell steals, oh, so tenderly?The dewy fragrance of a summer night!?All wan and wistful, somewhere out of sight,?Stalking o'er landscapes wide and dark and free,?My friend, the moon, looks everywhere for me,?Splashing the paths I loved with silver light.
Oh loveliness! why do you torture so?With such keen beauty till the day appears??Why touch to life things buried long ago,?Whose aching cries trouble the heart to tears;?Ghostly--like wind tossed sea gulls calling low?Out of the poignant vistas of the years?
PHANTOMS
Ghost of a mountain?And ghost of a moon;?Night birds sink droopingly?Over the dune
Clouds drifting hazily?Stars blurring through;?Darkness come close to me--?Darkness and you.
Mist on the water?And mist in the sky;?Netted with silver?The waves ripple by.
Ghost of a solitude?Lit with dead stars.?You have your memories?I have my bars!
SEVEN LITTLE SPARROWS
Beyond the deep-cut window?The bars are heaped with snow,?And seven little sparrows?Are sitting in a row.
Fluffy blur of snowflakes;?Dappled haze of light;?The narrow prison vista?Is all awhirl with white.
Seven little sparrows?Ruffled brown and grey?Snuggled close against the bars--?And this is Christmas day!
SALAAM!
Serene, complacent, satisfied,?Content with things that be;?The paragon of paltriness?Upraised for all to see;?With loving pride he cherishes?His mediocrity!
The smirking, ass-like multitudes?Cringe down at his command.?With wagging ears and blinded eyes?They do not understand.?With pride they show each shackled wrist?And on each brow the brand.
The young, the old, the great, the small?Give homage--all supine.?Fond parents bring their children there?As to some holy shrine.?And every one the Beast transforms?From human into swine!
Well praised are they--rewarded well--?Who on their shoulders bore?The gilded Thing that all the mob?Fawned in the dust before.?And each that did obeisance there?Was naked like a whore.
The poet with his teeming song,?The wise his deep-delved lore,?The maiden with her tender flesh,?The strong his sturdy store:?Each yielded all he had to give;?No harlot could do more.
Is there not one to share with me?The shame and wrath I own??Is there not one to curse that Thing?Or pick up stones to stone--?To rend and wreck and raze to earth--?Or do I stand alone?
Raise high the swine-like incubus,?Obediently bow!?Shatter the flame on rebel lips?And wreath that brazen brow!?So blaze the banners, ring the bells,?Apotheosis now!
My kind but scorn your dull "success"--?Your subtle ways to "win,"?We eat our hearts in solitude?Or sear our souls with "sin";?Yet we are better men than you?Who fit so smugly in.
Go! grovel for the shoddy goods?And plod and plot and plan,?And if you win the paltry prize?Go prize it--if you can,?But I would hurl it in your face?To hold myself a man!
I will not bow with that mad horde?And passively obey.?I will not think their sordid thoughts?Nor say the things they say,?Nor wear their shameful uniforms,?Nor branded be as they.
Nor can they bend me to their will?Though black their numbers swell,?Nor bribe with hopes of paradise?Nor force with fears of hell;?Me they may break but never bend,--?I live but to rebel!
I go my way rejoicingly,?I, outcast, spurned and low,?But undreamed worlds may come to birth?From seeds that I may sow.?And if there's pain within my heart?Those fools shall never know.
So let me stand back silently,?The pageant passes by,?And live my life with these new Christs?Whom you would crucify,?And laugh with