The Toilers
Where now men huddle together and whisper and harken,
Or hold their bleak hands over embers that die out and darken.
The anarchies gather and thunder: few, few are the fraters,
And loud is the revel at night in the camp of the traitors.
Say, Shelley, where are you—where are you? our hearts are a-breaking!
The fight in the terrible darkness—the shame—the forsaking!
The leaves shower down and are sport for the winds that come after;
And so are the Toilers in all lands the jest and the laughter
Of nobles—the Toilers scourged on in the furrow as cattle,
Or flung as a meat to the cannons that hunger in battle.
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