Page:When the Leaves Come Out (Chaplin 1917).pdf/34

  He begs and coaxes, threatens, yells,
 * For shallow glory thirsting,

In fact he's but a bag of wind
 * That's swollen up to bursting.

The smiling bosses think he'd like
 * To boodle from their manger;

And as he never mentions STRIKE,
 * They know there is no danger.

And all the while he spouts and spiels
 * He's musing undetected

On what a helluva snap he'll have
 * When once he is elected!

  The scene is wan with fading light,
 * The trees are drooped in hazy dreams,
 * A far-off cottage window gleams—

A tiny beacon, lone and bright.

The evening sounds are faintly dear—
 * An echo of the workday strife,
 * While thrilling with a strange new life

A hidden bird is warbling near.

And one rough shadow, blurred and grey,
 * Creeps slowly on with feet of lead—
 * A slave who trudges home to bed

To rest him for another day.

He pauses as he passes by
 * To catch each liquid dream-like note;
 * A sob has risen in his throat

Somehow, without him knowing why. . . 