Page:The cry for justice - an anthology of the literature of social protest. - (IA cryforjusticea00sinc).pdf/796

 Hoarsely they beg of Fate to give A little lightening of their woe, A little time to love, to live, A little time to think and know. I see where from the slums may rise Some unexpected dreadful dawn— The gleam of steeled and scowling eyes, A flash of women's faces wan!

To a Bourgeois Litterateur

(Who referred to a group of agitators as "Professional Hoboes")

(See page 408)

How old, my friend, is that fine-pointed pen Wherewith in smiling quietude you trace The maiden maxims of your writing-place, And o'er this gripped and mortal-sweating den And battle-pit of hunger, now and then Dip out, with nice and intellectual grace, The faultless wisdoms of a nurtured race Of pale-eyed, pink, and perfect gentlemen?

How long have art and wit and poetry, With all their power, been content, like you, To gild the smiling fineness of the few, To filmy-curtain what they dare not see In multudinous reality— The rough and bloody soul of what is true?