Page:The cry for justice - an anthology of the literature of social protest. - (IA cryforjusticea00sinc).pdf/60

 Not by my sins wilt Thou judge me, but by the work of my hands. Master, I've done Thy bidding, and the light is low in the west, And the long, long shift is over Master, I've earned it—Rest.

Manhattan

(American poet, born 1877)

Here in the furnace City, in the humid air they faint, God's pallid poor, His people, with scarcely space for breath; So foul their teeming houses, so full of shame and taint, They cannot crowd within them for the frightful fear of Death.

Yet somewhere, Lord, Thine open seas are singing with the rain, And somewhere underneath Thy stars the cool waves crash and beat; Why is it here, and only here, are huddled Death and Pain, And here the form of Horror stalks, a menace in the street!

The burning flagstones gleam like glass at morning and at noon, The giant walls shut out the breeze—if any breeze should blow; And high above the smothering town at midnight hangs the moon, A red medallion in the sky, a monster cameo.