Page:The cry for justice - an anthology of the literature of social protest. - (IA cryforjusticea00sinc).pdf/215

 We are weary in our cradles From our mother's toil untold; We are born to hoarded weariness As some to hoarded gold.

We will not rise! We will not work! Nothing the day can give Is half so sweet as an hour of sleep; Better to sleep than live! What power can stir these heavy limbs? What hope these dull hearts swell? What fear more cold, what pain more sharp Than the life we know so well?

The slow, relentless, padding step That never goes astray— The rustle in the underbrush— The shadow in the way— The straining flight—the long pursuit— The steady gain behind— Death-wearied man and tireless brute, And the struggle wild and blind!

There's a hot breath at the keyhole And a tearing as of teeth! Well do I know the bloodshot eyes And the dripping jaws beneath! There's a whining at the threshold— There's a scratching at the floor— To work! To work! In Heaven's name! The wolf is at the door!