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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Bars and Shadows + The Prison Poems of Ralph Chaplin + +Author: Ralph Chaplin + +Posting Date: March 23, 2014 [EBook #6136] +Release Date: July, 2004 +First Posted: November 18, 2002 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BARS AND SHADOWS *** + + + + +Produced by David Starner and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team. HTML version by Al Haines. + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<h1> +<br /><br /><br /> +BARS AND SHADOWS +</h1> + +<p class="t3b"> +THE PRISON POEMS OF RALPH CHAPLIN +</p> + +<p class="t3"> +With an introduction By Scott Nearing +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p class="t3"> +1922 +</p> + +<p><br /><br /></p> + +<p class="t3b"> + CONTENTS<br /> +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> + <a href="#intro">INTRODUCTION</a><br /> + <a href="#mourn">MOURN NOT THE DEAD</a><br /> + <a href="#taps">TAPS</a><br /> + <a href="#night">NIGHT IN THE CELL HOUSE</a><br /> + <a href="#shadows">PRISON SHADOWS</a><br /> + <a href="#reveille">PRISON REVEILLE</a><br /> + <a href="#nocturne">PRISON NOCTURNE</a><br /> + <a href="#warrior">THE WARRIOR WIND</a><br /> + <a href="#freedom">TO FREEDOM</a><br /> + <a href="#vision">THE VISION MAKER</a><br /> + <a href="#distances">DISTANCES</a><br /> + <a href="#phantoms">PHANTOMS</a><br /> + <a href="#sparrows">SEVEN LITTLE SPARROWS</a><br /> + <a href="#salaam">SALAAM!</a><br /> + <a href="#west">THE WEST IS DEAD</a><br /> + <a href="#knees">UP FROM YOUR KNEES!</a><br /> + <a href="#eunuch">THE EUNUCH</a><br /> + <a href="#song">I. W. W. PRISON SONG</a><br /> + <a href="#france">TO FRANCE</a><br /> + <a href="#villanelle">VILLANELLE</a><br /> + <a href="#wesley">WESLEY EVEREST</a><br /> + <a href="#heretics">THE INDUSTRIAL HERETICS</a><br /> + <a href="#blood">BLOOD AND WINE</a><br /> + <a href="#guard">THE RED GUARD</a><br /> + <a href="#feast">THE RED FEAST</a><br /> + <a href="#girls">THE GIRLS WHO SANG FOR US</a><br /> + <a href="#edith">TO EDITH</a><br /> + <a href="#separation">SONG OF SEPARATION</a><br /> + <a href="#son">TO MY LITTLE SON</a><br /> + <a href="#escaped">ESCAPED!</a><br /> + <a href="#retrospect">RETROSPECT</a><br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="intro"></a> +INTRODUCTION +</h3> + +<p class="t3b"> +I. +</p> + +<p> +Ralph Chaplin is serving a twenty year sentence in the Federal +Penitentiary, not as a punishment for any act of violence against +person or property, but solely for the expression of his opinions. +</p> + +<p> +Chaplin, together with a number of fellow prisoners who were sentenced +at the same time, was accused of taking part in a conspiracy with +intent to obstruct the prosecution of the war. To be sure the +Government did not produce a single witness to show that the war had +been obstructed by their activities; but it was argued that the +agitation which they had carried on by means of speeches, articles, +pamphlets, meetings and organizing campaigns, would quite naturally +hamper the country in its war work. On the face of their indictments +these men were accused of interfering with the conduct of the war; in +reality they were sent to jail because they held and expressed certain +beliefs. +</p> + +<p> +As a member of the Industrial Workers of the World, Ralph Chaplin did +his part to make the organization a success. He wrote songs and +poems; he made speeches: he edited the official paper, "Solidarity". +He looked about him; saw poverty, wretchedness and suffering among the +workers; contrasted it with the luxury of those who owned the land and +the machinery of production; studied the problem of distribution; and +decided that it was possible, through the organization of the +producers, to establish a more scientific, juster, more humane system +of society. All this he felt, intensely. With him and his +fellow-workers the task of freeing humanity from economic bondage took +on the aspect of a faith, a religion. They held their meetings; wrote +their literature; made their speeches and sang their songs with +zealous devotion. They had seen a vision; they had heard a call to +duty; they were giving their lives to a cause—the emancipation of the +human race. +</p> + +<p> +When the war broke out in Europe, with millions of working-men +flinging death and misery at one another, men like Chaplin, the world +over, regarded it as the last straw. Was it not bad enough that these +exploited creatures should be used as factory-fodder? Must they be +cannon-fodder too? Why should they fight to increase the economic +power of German traders? of British manufacturers? The war was a +capitalist war between capitalist nations. What interest had the +workers in these nations? in their winnings or in their losses? So ran +the argument. +</p> + +<p> +The I. W. W. was not primarily an anti-war organization In theory it +had abandoned political activity to devote itself exclusively to +agitation and organization on the field of industry. Practically its +funds and its energies were expended upon industrial struggles. Long +before the war, the I. W. W. had made itself known and feared for its +conduct of strikes, its free speech fights, and its ability to put the +sore spots of American industrial life on the front page of the daily +press and to keep them there until the people had become aroused to +the wrongs that were being perpetrated. It was in this domain of +industry that the I. W. W. was functioning, and it was among the +business interests that the determination had been reached to rid the +country of the organization at all costs. +</p> + +<p> +Had the chief offense of the I. W. W. consisted in its expressed +opposition to the war, it would not have been singled out for attack. +Many of the peace societies that flourished prior to 1917 were more +outspoken and more consistent in their opposition to war than were the +leaders of the I. W. W. None of these societies, however, had acquired +reputation for championing the cause of industrial under dogs, and for +demanding a complete change in the form of American economic life. +Consequently, in the prosecution, in the sentences, in the +commutations and in the pardons, the anti-war pacifists were treated +very leniently, while the revolutionary I. W. W. members were singled +out for the most ferocious legal and extra-legal attack. +</p> + +<p> +Technically, Ralph Chaplin and his comrades had conspired to obstruct +the war. Actually, they had lined themselves up solidly against the +present economic order, of which the World War was only one phase. +This was their real crime. +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p class="t3b"> +II. +</p> + +<p> +Ralph Chaplin was guilty of the most serious social offense that a man +can commit. While living in an old and shattered social order, he had +championed a new order of society and had expounded a new culture. +Socrates and Jesus, for like offenses, lost their lives. Thousands of +their followers, guilty of no greater crime than that of denouncing +vested wrong and expounding new truths, have suffered in the dungeon, +on the scaffold and at the stake. +</p> + +<p> +Not because he and his fellows conspired to obstruct the war, but +because they denounced the present order of economic society and +taught the inauguration of a better one, are they still held in prison +more than three years after the signing of the armistice; after the +proclamation of peace and the resumption of trade with all of the +enemy countries; after the repeal or the lapse of the Espionage Act +and the other war-time laws under which they were convicted; and after +German agents and German spies, caught red-handed in their attempts to +interfere with the prosecution of the war, have won their freedom +through presidential pardon. +</p> + +<p> +The most dangerous men in the United States, during the years 1917 and +1918, were not those who were taking pay to do the will of the German +or the Austrian Governments, but those who were trying to convince the +American working people that they should throw aside a system of +economic parasitism and economic exploitation, should take possession +of the machinery of production and should secure for themselves the +product of their own toil. In the eyes of the masters of American +life, such men are still dangerous, and that is the reason that they +are kept in prison. +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p class="t3b"> +III. +</p> + +<p> +The culture of any age consists of the feelings, habits, customs, +activities, thoughts, ambitions and dreams of a people. It is a +composite picture of their homes, their work, their arts, their +pleasures and the other channels of their life-expression. +</p> + +<p> +The culture of each age has two aspects. On the one hand there is the +established or accepted culture of those who dominate and +control,—the culture of the leisure or ruling class. This culture is +respected, admired, applauded, and sometimes even worshipped by those +who benefit from it most directly. Civilization—even life itself +seems bound up with its continuance. When the advocates of the +established culture cry "Long live the King!" they are really shouting +approval of royalty, aristocracy, landlordism, vassalage, exploitation +and of all the other attributes of divine right. The world as it is +becomes in their minds, synonymous with the world as it should be. For +them the old culture is the best culture. +</p> + +<p> +On the other hand there is the new culture, comprising the hopes, +beliefs, ideas and ideals of those who feel that the present is but a +transition-stage, leading from the past into the future—a future that +they see radiant with the best that is in man, developing soundly +against the bounties that are supplied by the hand of nature. These +forward looking ones, impatient with the mistakes and injustices of +to-day, preach wisdom and justice for the morrow. So imperfect does +the present seem to them, and so obvious are the possibilities of the +future, that they look forward confidently to the overthrow of the old +social forms, and the establishment, in their places, of a new +society, the embryo of which is already germinating within the old +social shell. +</p> + +<p> +The old culture relies on tradition, custom, and the normal +conservatism of the masses of mankind, The new culture relies on +concepts of justice, truth, liberty, love, brotherhood. Eighteenth +century, Feudal France was filled with the prophecies of a form of +society that would supplant Feudalism. Nineteenth century Russia, in +the grip of a capitalist bureaucracy, proved to be the centre for the +revolutions of the early twentieth century. The new culture, growing +at first under the shadow of the old, gradually assumes larger and +larger proportions until it takes all of the sunlight for itself, +throwing the old culture into the shadow of oblivion. +</p> + +<p> +Each ruling class knows these facts,—knows that the old must give +place to the new; knows that the living, ruling culture of to-day will +be the history of the day after tomorrow, yet because of the vested +interests which they rely upon for their power, and because they are +satisfied to have the deluge come after them, they oppose each +manifestation of the new culture and strain every nerve to make the +temporary organization of the world permanent. The more vigorously the +new culture thrives, the more eagerly do the representatives of the +old order strive to destroy it. +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p class="t3b"> +IV. +</p> + +<p> +During three eventful centuries, the part of North America that is now +the United States has witnessed two fierce culture-survival struggles. +In the first of these struggles—that between the American Indians and +the whites, the culture of Western Europe supplanted the culture of +primitive America. In the second struggle—that between the slave +holders of the South and the rising business interests of the North, +the slave oligarchy was swept from power, and in its place there was +established the new financial imperialism that dominates the public +life of the nation at the present time. Despite the extreme youth of +the capitalist system in the United States, there are already many +signs that those who profit by it must be prepared to defend it at no +distant date. The Russian Revolution of 1917 sounded the loudest note +of warning, but even before that occurred, the industrial capitalists +had entered upon a struggle which they believed to be of the greatest +importance to their future. +</p> + +<p> +During the twenty years that elapsed between the Homestead and Pullman +strikes and the beginning of the world war, the pages of American +industrial history are crowded with stories of the labor conflict—on +an ever vaster and vaster scale, between nationally organized +employers, using the power of the police, the courts and, where +necessary, the army; and the nationally organized workers, backed by +some show of public sentiment, and armed with the strength of numbers. +Although the bulk of the workers was still unorganized, and although +those who were organized thought and acted within the lines of their +crafts, considering themselves as railway trainmen or as carpenters +first, and as workers afterward, there was not wanting a new +spirit—sometimes called the spirit of industrial unionism—emphasizing +labor solidarity and speaking most loudly through the +propaganda, first of the Socialist Labor Party and later of the +I. W. W. +</p> + +<p> +The old culture was joining battle with the new. "America is the land +of opportunity. It was good enough for my father: it is good enough +for me" was the slogan of the capitalists. "The world for the +workers," answered the vanguard of the exploited masses. +</p> + +<p> +The advocate of a labor state is as unpopular in a capitalist society +as the abolitionist was in the Carolinas before the Civil War. He sees +a vision that the stalwarts of the existing order do not care to see; +he speaks a language that they cannot comprehend; he represents an +interest that is as hateful to them as it is alien to their +privileges. +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p class="t3b"> +V. +</p> + +<p> +At the outset, while the old order is still relatively strong, and the +new relatively weak, the spokesmen of the old order can afford to +ignore the champions of the new. But as the established order grows +more senile and the new order more vigorous, the defenders of the old +order, by force or by guile, set themselves to root out the new, even +though they should be compelled to destroy themselves in the process. +Then there ensues a savage struggle in which wits are matched against +wits and force against force. Families are divided; the community is +split into factions; civil war rages; society is torn to its +foundations. At times the struggle reaches the military phase, but for +the most part it instills itself into the lives of the people until it +becomes an accepted part of the day's work. +</p> + +<p> +Then it is that the real test comes between the old world and the new. +The old world holds power—economic, social, political. It holds in +its hands income, respectability and preferment, with which it seeks +first to buy, and later to destroy all who oppose its will. +</p> + +<p> +Buying is the easiest, the safest, and in the long run the cheapest +method of gaining the desired end. +</p> + +<p> +Each generation contains some men and women possessed of unusual +endowments—as organizers and enterprisers, as spokesmen, as singers, +as seers and prophets. These gifted ones the old order sets out to +win—lavishing upon them gratitudes, favors, rewards; filling their +lives out of the horn of economic and social plenty; teasing their +vanities and gratifying their ambitions; soothing, cajoling, +flattering. By these means the rulers succeed in bringing under their +control the strong thinkers, the capable executives, the sensitive, +the talented—all in fact who are worth buying, and who can be bought +for income and for social preferment, even though they may have been +born into the families of the humblest and most oppressed of the +workers. +</p> + +<p> +Most men and women go where income promises and social preferment +beckons. But not all! There are some whose love of justice, truth and +beauty; whose yearning for betterment and increased social +opportunity, outweighs the tempting bait of ease and respectability. +Them the established order smites. +</p> + +<p> +The strength of the old order is measured superficially by the extent +of its control over the means of common livelihood and by the +generalness of the satisfaction or discontent with which the masses +receive its administration. Fundamentally its strength is determined +by the direction in which its life is tending. The structure of the +Roman Empire was apparently sound before it buckled and disintegrated. +The French aristocracy was never surer of itself than in the gala days +that preceded 1789. The old order may undergo a process of gradual +transformation. In that case the change is slow, as it was when +Feudalism gave place to Capitalism in England. Again, the old order +may be exterminated as it was when Feudalism gave place to Capitalism +in France. In one case the masters of life loosens the reins of power +to ease the straining team; in the other case the masters hold the +reins taut till they are jerked from their hands, as masters and team +go together over the precipice. +</p> + +<p> +The strength of the new order, at any stage in its development may be +gauged by the solidarity of its organization, the efficacy of its +propaganda, and the tone of its art. These forms of expression are +necessary to the maintenance of any phase of culture, old or new, and +by the last of the three, the esthetic expression of the culture, its +morale may best be judged. It is for this reason that artists, +musicians, dramatists and poets are so important a part of any order +of society. They voice its deepest sentiments and express its most +sacred faiths and longings. When the time arrives that a new social +order can boast its permanent art and music and literature, it is +already far advanced on the path that leads to stability and power. +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p class="t3b"> +VI. +</p> + +<p> +The poems which appear in this volume are a contribution to the +propaganda and the art of the new culture. "Above all things," writes +Chaplin, "I don't want anyone to try to make me out a 'poet'—because +I'm not. I don't think much of these esthetic creatures who condescend +to stoop to our level that we may have the blessings of culture. We'll +manage to make our own—do it in our own way, and stagger through +somehow. . . . These are tremendous times, and sooner or later someone +will come along big enough to sound the right note, and it will be a +rebel note." It is that note which Chaplin has sought to strike, and +that he has succeeded will be the verdict of anyone who has read over +the poems. +</p> + +<p> +Chaplin's work speaks for itself. Some of the poems were written in +Leavenworth Prison and published in the prison paper. Others were +written during the tedious months of the Chicago trial, when the men +were kept in the Cook County jail. Chaplin has had ample time to work +them out. Christmas, 1921, was the fifth consecutive Christmas that +he has spent in prison. The poems bear the impress of the bars, but +they ring with the glad vigor of a free spirit that bars cannot +contain. +</p> + +<p> +The reader of Chaplin's prison poems unavoidably makes three mental +comments: +</p> + +<p> +1. When poems so reserved, so vigorous; so penetrating, so melodious, +so beautiful, come from behind jail bars, it is high time that +thinking men and women awoke to the fate that awaits bold dreamers and +singers under the present order in the United States. +</p> + +<p> +2. Men are not silenced when steel doors clang behind them. Free +spirits are as free behind the bars as they are under the open sky. +The jail, as a gag, is impotent. While it may master the body, it +cannot contain the soul. +</p> + +<p> +3. The new order in America is already finding its voice. Although it +is so young, and so immature, it is speaking with an accent of gifted +authority. +</p> + +<p> +Chaplin is not a dangerous man—except as his ideas are dangerous to +the existing order of society. His presence in the penitentiary, under +a twenty year sentence, indicates how dangerous those ideas are +considered by the masters of American public life. Rich those masters +are—fabulously rich; and strong they may be, yet so insecure do they +feel themselves that they are constrained to hold in prison this +dreamer and singer of the new social order. +</p> + +<p> +Chaplin, in prison, like Debs in prison, is doing his work. He is +resisting the encroachments of those jail demons—hate, bitterness, +revenge; he is holding his mind on the goal—a newer, better social +order; he is keeping his vision of nature, of humanity, of +brotherhood, of courage, of love, of beauty,—clear and bright. +Chaplin, the man, is in jail; but Chaplin the poet and singer is +roaming wherever books go; wherever papers are read, and wherever +comrades repeat verses to one another in the flickering light of the +evening fire. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +SCOTT NEARING. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="mourn"></a> +MOURN NOT THE DEAD +</h3> + +<p class="poem"> + Mourn not the dead that in the cool earth lie—<br /> + Dust unto dust—<br /> + The calm, sweet earth that mothers all who die<br /> + As all men must;<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Mourn not your captive comrades who must dwell—<br /> + Too strong to strive—<br /> + Within each steel-bound coffin of a cell,<br /> + Buried alive;<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + But rather mourn the apathetic throng—<br /> + The cowed and the meek—<br /> + Who see the world's great anguish and its wrong<br /> + And dare not speak!<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="taps"></a> +TAPS +</h3> + +<p class="poem"> + The day is ended! Ghostly shadows creep<br /> + Along each dim-lit wall and corridor.<br /> + The bugle sounds as from some faery shore<br /> + Silvered with sadness, somnolent and deep.<br /> + Darkness and bars . . . God! shall we curse or weep?<br /> + Somewhere a pipe is tapped upon the floor;<br /> + A guard slams shut the heavy iron door;<br /> + The day is ended—go to sleep—to sleep.<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Three times it blows—weird lullaby of doom—<br /> + And then to dream while fecund Night gives birth<br /> + To other days like this day that is done. .<br /> + But Morning . . . does it live beyond the gloom—<br /> + This deep black pall that hangs above the earth—<br /> + He fears the dark who dares to doubt the sun!<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="night"></a> +NIGHT IN THE CELL HOUSE +</h3> + +<p class="poem"> + Tier over tier they rise to dizzy height—<br /> + The cells of men who know the world no more.<br /> + Silence intense from ceiling to the floor;<br /> + While through the window gleams a lone blue light<br /> + Which stabs the dark immensity of night.<br /> + Felt shod and ghostly like a shade of yore,<br /> + The guard comes shuffling down the corridor;<br /> + His key-ring jingles . . . and he glides from sight.<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Oh, to forget the prison and its scars,<br /> + And face the breeze where ocean meets the land;<br /> + To watch the foam-crests dance with silver stars,<br /> + While long green waves come tumbling on the sand . . .<br /> + My brow is hot against the icy bars;<br /> + There is the smell of iron on my hand.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="shadows"></a> +PRISON SHADOWS +</h3> + +<p class="poem"> + Like grey-winged phantoms out of sullen skies<br /> + They flood our cells and seem to fashion there<br /> + I know not what dim landscapes of despair;<br /> + All day we feel them lurking in our eyes.<br /> + At night they fall like crosses, sombre-wise,<br /> + Upon the shameful uniforms we wear,<br /> + Upon the brow, the face, the hand, the hair;<br /> + And on each heart their shadow always lies.<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + O heart of mine, why throb with futile rage<br /> + And beat and beat against these hopeless bars?<br /> + For, though you break in life's last deadly swoon,<br /> + You cannot pierce beyond this iron cage<br /> + To see the pulsing splendor of the stars<br /> + Or feel the blue-green magic of the moon!<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="reveille"></a> +PRISON REVEILLE +</h3> + +<p class="poem"> + Out through the iron doorway, bolted strong,<br /> + I see the night guard's shadow on the wall.<br /> + The bugle sounds its thin, white silver call,<br /> + Awake! awake! O world-forgotten throng!<br /> + And then the sudden clanging of the gong,<br /> + And . . . silence . . . aching silence . . . over all;<br /> + While through the windows, steel-barred, stern and tall,<br /> + Pale daylight greets us like a plaintive song.<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Somewhere the dawn breaks laughing o'er the sea<br /> + To splash with gold the cities' domes and towers,<br /> + And countless men seek visions wide and free,<br /> + In that alluring world that is not ours;<br /> + But no one there could prize as much as we<br /> + The open road, the smell of grass and flowers.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="nocturne"></a> +PRISON NOCTURNE +</h3> + +<p class="poem"> + Outside the storm is swishing to and fro;<br /> + The wet wind hums its colorless refrain;<br /> + Against the walls and dripping bars, the rain<br /> + Beats with a rhythm like a song of woe;<br /> + Dimmed by the lightning's ever-fitful glow<br /> + The purple arc-lamps blur each streaming pane;<br /> + The thunder rumbles at the distant plain,<br /> + The cells are hushed and silent, row on row.<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Fall, fruitful drops, upon the parching earth,<br /> + Fall, and revive the living sap of spring;<br /> + Blossom the fields with wonder once again!<br /> + And, in all hearts, awaken to new birth<br /> + Those visions and endeavors that will bring<br /> + A fresh, sweet morning to the world of men!<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="warrior"></a> +THE WARRIOR WIND +</h3> + +<p class="poem"> + Once more the wind leaps from the sullen land<br /> + With his old battle-cry.<br /> + A tree bends darkly where the wall looms high;<br /> + Its tortured branches, like a grisly hand,<br /> + Clutch at the sky.<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Grey towers rise from gloom and underneath—<br /> + Black-barred and strong—<br /> + The snarling windows guard their ancient wrong;<br /> + But the mad wind shakes them, hissing through his teeth<br /> + A battle song.<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + O bitter is the challenge that he flings<br /> + At bars and bolts and keys.<br /> + Torn with the cries of vanished centuries<br /> + And curses hurled at long-forgotten kings<br /> + Beyond dim seas.<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + The wind alone, of all the gods of old,<br /> + Men could not chain.<br /> + O wild wind, brother to my wrath and pain,<br /> + Like you, within a restless heart I hold<br /> + A hurricane.<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + The wind has known the dungeons of the past<br /> + Knows all that are;<br /> + And in due time will strew their dust afar,<br /> + And singing, he will shout their doom at last<br /> + To a laughing star.<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + O cleansing warrior wind, stronger than death,<br /> + Wiser than men may know;<br /> + O smite these stubborn walls and lay them low,<br /> + Uproot and rend them with your mighty breath—<br /> + Blow, wild wind, blow!<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="freedom"></a> +TO FREEDOM +</h3> + +<p class="poem"> + Out on the "lookout" in the wind and sleet,<br /> + Out in the woods of fir and spruce and pine,<br /> + Down in the hot slopes of the dripping mine<br /> + We dreamed of you and Oh, the dream was sweet!<br /> + And now you bless the felon food we eat<br /> + And make each iron cell a sacred shrine;<br /> + For when your love thrills in the blood like wine,<br /> + The very stones grow holy to our feet.<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + We shall be faithful though we march with Death<br /> + And singing storm the barricades of Wrong,<br /> + For life is such a little thing to give.<br /> + We shall fight on as long as we have breath—<br /> + Love in our hearts and on our lips a song—<br /> + Without you it were better not to live!<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="vision"></a> +THE VISION MAKER +</h3> + +<p class="t3"> +To EUGENE VICTOR DEBS +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p class="poem"> + Christ-like he spoke. While angry cannon roared,<br /> + His vision tinged the torn and bleeding skies,<br /> + Men heard in him their own dumb anguished cries,<br /> + The heavens seemed to open at his word.<br /> + Give us a victim, shouted Caesar's horde,<br /> + From his black pyre red warnings shall arise,<br /> + The vision perishes, the prophet dies. . .<br /> + His truth is far more deadly than our sword!<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + And deadlier his dream—a quenchless flame,<br /> + For which no dungeon fastness can be built . . .<br /> + You have but made the convict half divine,<br /> + Crowned Truth with martyrdom, yourselves with shame;<br /> + Not he, but you are branded deep with guilt;<br /> + His cell is holier than your highest shrine.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="distances"></a> +DISTANCES +</h3> + +<p class="poem"> + Above the moist earth, tremulous and bright,<br /> + The stars creep forth—stars that I cannot see;<br /> + And to my cell steals, oh, so tenderly<br /> + The dewy fragrance of a summer night!<br /> + All wan and wistful, somewhere out of sight,<br /> + Stalking o'er landscapes wide and dark and free,<br /> + My friend, the moon, looks everywhere for me,<br /> + Splashing the paths I loved with silver light.<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Oh loveliness! why do you torture so<br /> + With such keen beauty till the day appears?<br /> + Why touch to life things buried long ago,<br /> + Whose aching cries trouble the heart to tears;<br /> + Ghostly—like wind tossed sea gulls calling low<br /> + Out of the poignant vistas of the years?<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="phantoms"></a> +PHANTOMS +</h3> + +<p class="poem"> + Ghost of a mountain<br /> + And ghost of a moon;<br /> + Night birds sink droopingly<br /> + Over the dune<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Clouds drifting hazily<br /> + Stars blurring through;<br /> + Darkness come close to me—<br /> + Darkness and you.<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Mist on the water<br /> + And mist in the sky;<br /> + Netted with silver<br /> + The waves ripple by.<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + <i>Ghost of a solitude</i><br /> + <i>Lit with dead stars.</i><br /> + <i>You have your memories</i><br /> + <i>I have my bars!</i><br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="sparrows"></a> +SEVEN LITTLE SPARROWS +</h3> + +<p class="poem"> + Beyond the deep-cut window<br /> + The bars are heaped with snow,<br /> + And seven little sparrows<br /> + Are sitting in a row.<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Fluffy blur of snowflakes;<br /> + Dappled haze of light;<br /> + The narrow prison vista<br /> + Is all awhirl with white.<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Seven little sparrows<br /> + Ruffled brown and grey<br /> + Snuggled close against the bars—<br /> + And this is Christmas day!<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="salaam"></a> +SALAAM! +</h3> + +<p class="poem"> + Serene, complacent, satisfied,<br /> + Content with things that be;<br /> + The paragon of paltriness<br /> + Upraised for all to see;<br /> + With loving pride he cherishes<br /> + His mediocrity!<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + The smirking, ass-like multitudes<br /> + Cringe down at his command.<br /> + With wagging ears and blinded eyes<br /> + They do not understand.<br /> + With pride they show each shackled wrist<br /> + And on each brow the brand.<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + The young, the old, the great, the small<br /> + Give homage—all supine.<br /> + Fond parents bring their children there<br /> + As to some holy shrine.<br /> + And every one the Beast transforms<br /> + From human into swine!<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Well praised are they—rewarded well—<br /> + Who on their shoulders bore<br /> + The gilded Thing that all the mob<br /> + Fawned in the dust before.<br /> + And each that did obeisance there<br /> + Was naked like a whore.<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + The poet with his teeming song,<br /> + The wise his deep-delved lore,<br /> + The maiden with her tender flesh,<br /> + The strong his sturdy store:<br /> + Each yielded all he had to give;<br /> + No harlot could do more.<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Is there not one to share with me<br /> + The shame and wrath I own?<br /> + Is there not one to curse that Thing<br /> + Or pick up stones to stone—<br /> + To rend and wreck and raze to earth—<br /> + Or do I stand alone?<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Raise high the swine-like incubus,<br /> + Obediently bow!<br /> + Shatter the flame on rebel lips<br /> + And wreath that brazen brow!<br /> + So blaze the banners, ring the bells,<br /> + Apotheosis now!<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + My kind but scorn your dull "success"—<br /> + Your subtle ways to "win,"<br /> + We eat our hearts in solitude<br /> + Or sear our souls with "sin";<br /> + Yet we are better men than you<br /> + Who fit so smugly in.<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Go! grovel for the shoddy goods<br /> + And plod and plot and plan,<br /> + And if you win the paltry prize<br /> + Go prize it—if you can,<br /> + But I would hurl it in your face<br /> + To hold myself a man!<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + I will not bow with that mad horde<br /> + And passively obey.<br /> + I will not think their sordid thoughts<br /> + Nor say the things they say,<br /> + Nor wear their shameful uniforms,<br /> + Nor branded be as they.<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Nor can they bend me to their will<br /> + Though black their numbers swell,<br /> + Nor bribe with hopes of paradise<br /> + Nor force with fears of hell;<br /> + Me they may break but never bend,—<br /> + I live but to rebel!<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + I go my way rejoicingly,<br /> + I, outcast, spurned and low,<br /> + But undreamed worlds may come to birth<br /> + From seeds that I may sow.<br /> + And if there's pain within my heart<br /> + Those fools shall never know.<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + So let me stand back silently,<br /> + The pageant passes by,<br /> + And live my life with these new Christs<br /> + Whom you would crucify,<br /> + And laugh with mirth to see the mob<br /> + Do homage to a Lie!<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="west"></a> +THE WEST IS DEAD +</h3> + +<p class="poem"> + What path is left for you to tread<br /> + When hunger-wolves are slinking near—<br /> + Do you not know the West is dead?<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + The "blanket-stiff" now packs his bed<br /> + Along the trails of yesteryear—<br /> + What path is left for you to tread?<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Your fathers, golden sunsets led<br /> + To virgin prairies wide and clear—<br /> + Do you not know the West is dead?<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Now dismal cities rise instead<br /> + And freedom is not there nor here—<br /> + What path is left for you to tread?<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Your fathers' world, for which they bled,<br /> + Is fenced and settled far and near—<br /> + Do you not know the West is dead?<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Your fathers gained a crust of bread,<br /> + Their bones bleach on the lost frontier;<br /> + What path is left for you to tread—<br /> + Do you not know the West is dead?<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="knees"></a> +UP FROM YOUR KNEES +</h3> + +<p class="t3"> +(Air: "Song of a Thousand Years") +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Up from your knees, ye cringing serf men!<br /> + What have ye gained by whines and tears?<br /> + Rise! They can never break our spirits<br /> + Though they should try a thousand years.<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + CHORUS<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + A thousand years, then speed the victory!<br /> + Nothing can stop us nor dismay.<br /> + After the winter comes the springtime;<br /> + After the darkness comes the day.<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Break ye your chains, strike off your fetters;<br /> + Beat them to swords, the Foe appears.<br /> + Slaves of the world arise and crush him—<br /> + Crush him or serve a thousand years.<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Join in the fight—the Final Battle,<br /> + Welcome the fray with ringing cheers.<br /> + These are the times our fathers dreamed of,<br /> + Fought to attain a thousand years.<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Be ye prepared, be not unworthy,<br /> + Greater the task when triumph nears.<br /> + Master the earth, O men of labor;<br /> + Long have ye learned—a thousand years.<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Out of the East the sun is rising,<br /> + Out of the night the day appears;<br /> + See! at your feet the world is waiting,<br /> + Bought with your blood a thousand years.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="eunuch"></a> +THE EUNUCH +</h3> + +<p class="t3"> +(To those who fight on the side of the Powers of Darkness) +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Once a Eunuch by the palace<br /> + In the sunset's fading glow<br /> + Felt the soft warm breezes blow;<br /> + Watched the fair girls of the Harem<br /> + Idly saunter to and fro.<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Saw he beauty young and lavish—<br /> + Fierce to lure man's every sense—<br /> + (Grim the Eunuch stood and tense)<br /> + Laughingly the sparkling fountain<br /> + Mocked his bleak incompetence.<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Came the Sultan from his hunting<br /> + Flaming with the zest of life;<br /> + (Laid aside were spear and knife)<br /> + Came for wine and song and feasting,<br /> + Came to seek his fairest wife.<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Opened then the marble portals.<br /> + Fragrant incense filled the air,<br /> + (Sandalwood and roses rare)<br /> + While the girls with red-lipped languor<br /> + Scattered flowers everywhere.<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Far away the fabled mountains,<br /> + (Like some paradise of old)<br /> + Glowed with lavender and gold.<br /> + Tense the Eunuch stood and silent—<br /> + Tense and sullen, tense and cold.<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Now a quick impotent fury<br /> + Lashed him like a bronze-tipped cord.<br /> + Sprang he at the youthful lord,<br /> + Sprang again with blade all bloody . . .<br /> + (Famished lust and dripping sword.)<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + * * * * *<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Night crept on all chill and ghastly,<br /> + Jackals trotted forth to bark,<br /> + (Murder shuddered, still and stark . . .)<br /> + By the palace ceased the fountain<br /> + And the whole grey world grew dark.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="song"></a> +I. W. W. PRISON SONG +</h3> + +<p class="t3"> +(Tune: "The Red Flag") +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p class="poem"> + The pale and dismal daylight falls<br /> + Through iron bars on prison walls.<br /> + In chains we came from far and near,<br /> + And in dark cells they hold us here.<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + CHORUS<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Defiant 'neath the Iron Heel;<br /> + Their walls of stone and bars of steel!<br /> + For though all hell at us is hurled,<br /> + We and our kind shall rule the world!<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + At us the blood-hounds are let loose,<br /> + The lynch-mobs with the knotted noose;<br /> + In legal sanctioned mask and gown<br /> + The New Black Hundreds hunt us down.<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + To all brave comrades o'er the sea,<br /> + In chains for human liberty,<br /> + And all jailed rebels everywhere<br /> + We say: be bold to do and dare!<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + By all the graves of Labor's dead,<br /> + By Labor's deathless flag of red,<br /> + We make a solemn vow to you,—<br /> + We'll keep the faith; we will be true.<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + For Freedom laughs at prison bars<br /> + Her voice re-echoes from the stars;<br /> + Proclaiming with the tempest's breath<br /> + A Cause beyond the reach of death!<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="france"></a> +TO FRANCE +</h3> + +<p class="t3"> +(May Day, 1919) +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Mother of revolutions, stern and sweet,<br /> + Thou of the red Commune's heroic days;<br /> + Unsheathe thy sword, let thy pent lightning blaze<br /> + Until these new bastiles fall at thy feet.<br /> + Once more thy sons march down the ancient street<br /> + Led by pale men from silent Pere la Chaise;<br /> + Once more La Carmignole—La Marseillaise<br /> + Blend with the war drum's quick and angry beat.<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Ah, France—our—France—must they again endure<br /> + The crown of thorns upon the cross of death?<br /> + Is morning here . . .? Then speak that we may know!<br /> + The sky seems lighter but we are not sure.<br /> + Is morning here . . .? The whole world holds its breath<br /> + To hear the crimson Gallic rooster crow!<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="villanelle"></a> +VILLANELLE +</h3> + +<p class="t3"> +(Torquato Tasso from his cell at Ste. Anne, 1548) +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Her beauty haunts me everywhere—<br /> + A lone lark singing as it flies—<br /> + Sweet, O sweet beyond compare.<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Amber and gold meet in her hair,<br /> + Dark pools and starlight in her eyes;<br /> + Her beauty haunts me everywhere.<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Slim body, petal soft and fair,<br /> + Cool lips, cool, cool as evening skies—<br /> + Sweet, O sweet beyond compare.<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Pale fingers delicate and rare,<br /> + To lull and lure caressing-wise;<br /> + Her beauty haunts me everywhere.<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Here in my dungeon dim and bare<br /> + The last frail not of music dies—<br /> + Sweet, O sweet beyond compare.<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + My heart? I steeled it not to care. . . .<br /> + But God! her love is paradise!<br /> + Her beauty haunts me everywhere,<br /> + O sweet, sweet, sweet beyond compare!<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="wesley"></a> +WESLEY EVEREST +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +(Mutilated and murdered at Centralia, Washington, +November 11th, 1919, by a mob of "respectable" +businessmen.) +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Torn and defiant as a wind-lashed reed,<br /> + Wounded he faced you as he stood at bay;<br /> + You dared not lynch him in the light of day,<br /> + But on your dungeon stones you let him bleed;<br /> + Night came . . . and you black vigilants of Greed . . .<br /> + Like human wolves, seized hard upon your prey,<br /> + Tortured and killed . . . and, silent slunk away<br /> + Without one qualm of horror at the deed.<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Once . . . long ago . . . do you remember how<br /> + You hailed Him king for soldiers to deride—<br /> + You placed a scroll above His bleeding brow<br /> + And spat upon Him, scourged Him, crucified . . .?<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + A rebel unto Caesar—then as now<br /> + Alone, thorn-crowned, a spear wound in his side!<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="heretics"></a> +THE INDUSTRIAL HERETICS +</h3> + +<p class="poem"> + They say we are revolters—that we stirred<br /> + The workers of all nations to rebel—<br /> + And that we would not compromise with Hell,<br /> + But damned it with our every deed and word.<br /> + They feared us as we faced them undeterred,<br /> + And gave us each a coffin of a cell<br /> + In this steel cave where living corpses dwell—<br /> + Hate-throttled here that we might not be heard.<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + We are those fools too stubborn-willed to bend<br /> + Our necks to Wrong and parley and discuss.<br /> + Today we face the awful test of fire—<br /> + The prison, gallows, cross—but in the end<br /> + Your sons will call your children after us<br /> + And name their dogs from men you now admire!<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="blood"></a> +BLOOD AND WINE +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +(A certain little renegade of the Revolution chants a +hymn of praise to his erstwhile enemy.) +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Behold! The helots of the land<br /> + Are cowed beneath thy iron fist;<br /> + They are too dumb to understand—<br /> + Too tame and spineless to resist.<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Victorious one! Against thy gains<br /> + These chattels cannot, dare not rise;<br /> + Stifle the thought within their brains<br /> + And rule . . . with bayonets and lies.<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + So may thy sons, with greed uncurbed,<br /> + Their children's children rule again;<br /> + Aye, rule with iron, undisturbed,<br /> + The all-prolific sons of men.<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + What matters that ten million died<br /> + To give thy lust a dwelling place?<br /> + Does not thy Terror set aside<br /> + The ancient freedom of the race?<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + What matters that the peasant's plow<br /> + Bites at a soil baptised with red?<br /> + Are not thy bloody dollars now<br /> + More myriad than the myriad dead?<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + That in charred cities, wan with pain,<br /> + War-desolated mothers live,<br /> + While lips of babies tug in vain<br /> + At breasts that have no milk to give?<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Or that beneath thy battered walls,<br /> + Cursed with the eloquence of hell,<br /> + Black Want to red Rebellion calls . . .?<br /> + Heed not, I tell thee all is well!<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Heed not! Have vine-clad maidens sing<br /> + And serve thee scented wine and gore;<br /> + Laugh! Glut thyself to vomiting,<br /> + And hiccough, screaming still for more.<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + What of the Men against the gate,<br /> + Black-massed and sullen, gaunt and lean . . .<br /> + Like thee they crave one thing to hate.<br /> + Be glad . . . and whet thy guillotine!<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="guard"></a> +THE RED GUARD +</h3> + +<p class="poem"> + Sons of the dawn! No more shall you enslave<br /> + Nor lull them with your honied lies to sleep,<br /> + Nor lead them on like herds of human sheep,<br /> + To hopeless slaughter for the loot you crave.<br /> + For now upon you, wave on mighty wave,<br /> + The iron-stern battalions rise and leap<br /> + To extirpate your breed and bury deep<br /> + And sow with salt the unlamented grave!<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Accursed Monster — nightmare of the years—<br /> + Pause but a moment ere you pass away!<br /> + Pause and behold the earth made clean and pure—<br /> + Our earth, that you have drenched with blood and tears—<br /> + Then greet the crimson usurer of Day,—<br /> + The mighty Proletarian Dictature!<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="feast"></a> +THE RED FEAST +</h3> + +<p class="poem"> + Go fight, you fools! Tear up the earth with strife<br /> + And spill each others guts upon the field;<br /> + Serve unto death the men you served in life<br /> + So that their wide dominions may not yield.<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Stand by the flag—the lie that still allures;<br /> + Lay down your lives for land you do not own,<br /> + And give unto a war that is not yours<br /> + Your gory tithe of mangled flesh and bone.<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + But whether it be yours to fall or kill<br /> + You must not pause to question why nor where.<br /> + You see the tiny crosses on that hill?<br /> + It took all those to make one millionaire.<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + It was for him the seas of blood were shed,<br /> + That fields were razed and cities lit the sky;<br /> + And now he comes to chortle o'er the dead—<br /> + The condor Thing for whom the millions die!<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + The bugle screams, the cannons cease to roar.<br /> + "Enough! enough! God give us peace again."<br /> + The rats, the maggots and the Lords of War<br /> + Are fat to bursting from their meal of men.<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + So stagger back, you stupid dupes who've "won,"<br /> + Back to your stricken towns to toil anew,<br /> + For there your dismal tasks are still undone<br /> + And grim Starvation gropes again for you.<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + What matters now your flag, your race, the skill<br /> + Of scattered legions—what has been the gain?<br /> + Once more beneath the lash you must distil<br /> + Your lives to glut a glory wrought of pain.<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + In peace they starve you to your loathsome toil,<br /> + In war they drive you to the teeth of Death;<br /> + And when your life-blood soaks into their soil<br /> + They give you lies to choke your dying breath.<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + So will they smite your blind eyes till you see,<br /> + And lash your naked backs until you know<br /> + That wasted blood can never set you free<br /> + From fettered thraldom to the Common Foe.<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Then you will find that "nation" is a name<br /> + And boundaries are things that don't exist;<br /> + That Labor's bondage, worldwide, is the same,<br /> + And ONE the enemy it must resist.<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Montreal, 1914. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="girls"></a> +THE GIRLS WHO SANG FOR US +</h3> + +<p class="poem"> + What does it mean to us that Spring is here?<br /> + We asked ourselves within the great grey hall.<br /> + We shall not feel the magic of her call;<br /> + This day, like others, will be dull and drear.<br /> + And then you sang . . . and brought so very near,<br /> + The fragrant world beyond the prison wall,<br /> + The tender fields, the trees and grass, and all<br /> + The hopes and dreams that every man holds dear.<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + O, silvery voices, sweet with life and youth<br /> + Brushing our grey lives with your rainbow wings—<br /> + Lives that were stern and bitter with old wrong,<br /> + And cleansing them with beauty and with truth;<br /> + Reviving memories of vanished springs—<br /> + Making us whole with miracles of song!<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="edith"></a> +TO EDITH +</h3> + +<p class="poem"> + Do you remember how we walked that night<br /> + In early spring?<br /> + And how we found a new and sweet delight<br /> + In everything?<br /> + Do you remember how the air was filled<br /> + With mist and moonlight—how our hearts were thrilled—<br /> + And seemed to sing?<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + What if these walls shut out the world for me<br /> + And heaven too,<br /> + There still lives fragrant in my memory<br /> + The thought of you.<br /> + And out there now with life's high dome above you<br /> + If you but knew how very much I love you—<br /> + If you but knew . . . .<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="separation"></a> +SONG OF SEPARATION +</h3> + +<p class="poem"> + Two that I love must live alone,<br /> + Far away.<br /> + All in the world I can call my own,<br /> + Only they.<br /> + Mother and boy in the rocking chair,<br /> + Thinking of one who cannot be there,<br /> + Breathing a hope that is half a prayer;<br /> + Night and day, night and day.<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Here in my cell I must sit alone,<br /> + Clothed in grey.<br /> + Bars of iron and walls of stone<br /> + Bid me stay.<br /> + What of the world with its pomp and show?<br /> + Baubles of nothing! This I know:<br /> + Deep in my heart I miss them so<br /> + Night and day, night and day.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="son"></a> +TO MY LITTLE SON +</h3> + +<p class="poem"> + I cannot lose the thought of you<br /> + It haunts me like a little song,<br /> + It blends with all I see or do<br /> + Each day, the whole day long.<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + The train, the lights, the engine's throb,<br /> + And that one stinging memory:<br /> + Your brave smile broken with a sob,<br /> + Your face pressed close to me.<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Lips trembling far too much to speak;<br /> + The arms that would not come undone;<br /> + The kiss so salty on your cheek;<br /> + The long, long trip begun.<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + I could not miss you more it seemed,<br /> + But now I don't know what to say.<br /> + It's harder than I ever dreamed<br /> + With you so far away.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="escaped"></a> +ESCAPED! +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +(The boiler house whistle is blown "wildcat" when +a prisoner makes a "getaway") +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + A man has fled. . . .! We clutch the bars and wait;<br /> + The corridors are empty, tense and still;<br /> + A silver mist has dimmed the distant hill;<br /> + The guards have gathered at the prison gate.<br /> + Then suddenly the "wildcat" blares its hate<br /> + Like some mad Moloch screaming for the kill,<br /> + Shattering the air with terror loud and shrill,<br /> + The dim, grey walls become articulate.<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Freedom, you say? Behold her altar here!<br /> + In those far cities men can only find<br /> + A vaster prison and a redder hell,<br /> + O'ershadowed by new wings of greater fear.<br /> + Brave fool, for such a world to leave behind<br /> + The iron sanctuary of a cell!<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="retrospect"></a> +RETROSPECT +</h3> + +<p class="poem"> + The wall-girt distance undulates with heat;<br /> + The buildings crouch in terror of the sun;<br /> + Steel bars and stones, heat-tortured ton on ton,<br /> + On which the noon's remorseless hammers beat.<br /> + Alone I trudge the wide red-cobbled street:<br /> + How long before this evil dream is done . . .?<br /> + These strange mad stones I know them every one,<br /> + Worn with the tread of oh, how many feet!<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + And yet it seems that I have seen it all<br /> + Before . . . I know not when . . . but there should be<br /> + Blunt buildings near a cliff, as I recall;<br /> + Bare rocks—a burning white—a gnarled dark tree . . .<br /> + And looming clear above a sentried wall<br /> + The foam-laced splendor of a warm blue sea . . .<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /><br /></p> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Bars and Shadows, by Ralph Chaplin + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BARS AND SHADOWS *** + +***** This file should be named 6136-h.htm or 6136-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/6/1/3/6136/ + +Produced by David Starner and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team. 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