Page:When the Leaves Come Out (Chaplin 1917).pdf/10

  Nor can they bend me to their will
 * Though black their numbers swell,

Nor bribe with hopes of paradise
 * Nor force with fears of hell;

Me they may break, but never bend—
 * I live but to rebel.

I go my way rejoicingly,
 * I, outcast, spurned and low;

But undreamed worlds may come to birth
 * From seeds that I may sow,

And if there's pain within my heart
 * Those fools shall never know.

My kind but scorn your dull "success"—
 * Your subtle ways to "win,"

We eat our hearts in solitude
 * Or sear our souls with "sin";

Yet we are better men than you
 * Who fit so smugly in.

Then let me stand back silently,
 * The pageant passes by,

And live my life with "outcasts"
 * Whom your hands would crucify,

And laugh with mirth to see the mob
 * Do homage to a Lie!

