Page:When the Leaves Come Out (Chaplin 1917).pdf/9

  The poet with his teeming song,
 * The wise his deep-delved lore,

The maiden with her tender flesh,
 * The strong his sturdy store;

Each yielded all he had to give,
 * No harlot could do more.

Is there not one to share with me
 * The shame and wrath I own,

Is there not one to curse that Thing
 * Or pick up stones to stone—

To rend and wreck and raze to earth;
 * Or do I stand alone?

Raise high the swine-like incubus,
 * Obediently bow!

Shout down the voice of bold dissent
 * And wreath that brazen brow.

So blaze the banners, ring the bells—
 * Apotheosis now!

Go, grovel for the shoddy goods
 * And plod and plot and plan,

And if you win the paltry prize
 * Go prize it if you can,

But I would hurl it in your face
 * To hold myself a man!

I will not bow with that mad horde
 * And passively obey.

I will not think their sordid thoughts,
 * Nor say the things they say,

Nor wear their shameful liveries,
 * Nor branded be as they.

