Page:The cry for justice - an anthology of the literature of social protest. - (IA cryforjusticea00sinc).pdf/237

 "A curse for the king of the wealthy and proud, Who for us had no pity, we weave in the shroud; Who takes our last penny to swell out his purse, While we die the death of a dog—yea, a curse—   We are weaving, still weaving.

"A curse for our country, whose cowardly crowd Hold her shame in high honor, we weave in the shroud; Whose blossoms are blighted and slain in the germ, Whose filth and corruption engender the worm—   We are weaving, still weaving.

"To and fro flies our shuttle—no pause in its flight, 'Tis a shroud we are weaving by day and by night; We are weaving a shroud for the worse than dead, And a threefold curse in its every thread—   We are weaving—still weaving."

Alton Locke

(See pages 78, 84)

Yes, it was true. Society had not given me my rights. And woe unto the man on whom that idea, true or false, rises lurid, filling all his thoughts with stifling glare, as of the pit itself. Be it true, be it false, it is equally a woe to believe it; to have to live on a negation; to have to worship for our only idea, as hundreds of thousands of us have this day, the hatred of the things which are. Ay, though one of us here and there may die in faith, in sight of the promised land, yet is it not