Page:The cry for justice - an anthology of the literature of social protest. - (IA cryforjusticea00sinc).pdf/334

 And yet she rests not; yet she will not drink The cup of peace held to her parching lips By smug Dishonor's hand. Nay, forth she fares, Old and alone, on exile's rocky road— That well-worn road with snows incarnadined By blood-drops from her feet long years agone.

Mother of power, my soul goes out to you As a strong swimmer goes to meet the sea Upon whose vastness he is like a leaf. What are the ends and purposes of song, Save as a bugle at the lips of Life To sound reveille to a drowsing world When some great deed is rising like the sun? Where are those others whom your deeds inspired To deeds and words that were themselves a deed? Those who believe in death have gone with death To the gray crags of immortality; Those who believed in life have gone with life To the red halls of spiritual death.

And you? But what is death or life to you? Only a weapon in the hand of faith To cleave a way for beings yet unborn To a far freedom you will never share! Freedom of body is an empty shell Wherein men crawl whose souls are held with gyves; For Freedom is a spirit, and she dwells As often in a jail as on the hills. In all the world this day there is no soul Freer than you, Breshkovsky, as you stand Facing the future in your narrow cell. For you are free of self and free of fear,