And go away, panting. They have done their service.
O, wonderful service when Justice shall hold the lever.
Truck-men, their naked chests shining with sweat,
Snatch the trains empty of boxes, bales and barrels ;
And, amid shouting at men and horses,
Crack of whips, honk of horns,
The trucks and auto-trucks are loaded,
And hurry into the canyons of the city.
When Freedom and Justice get down among the workers.
Shoulder to shoulder,
The brawling and cursing shall cease
And the shouts of Labor shall be jubilant, exultant,
satisfied ; The city's streets are of stone ; its walls are of stone. And they grind the grist of Hell. But the cities shall hum with unbroken gladness, as hives
in June, when the clover is white upon the grass and
the locust blossoms sway upon the trees.
TRUTH: O Blessed Revolution!
POET: The stones of the city are without tongues or ears ; Its laughter is cold, its tears are hot ; In the hard, indifferent streets little mothers sell
themselves for bread. And Daughters of Joy, dolls of Death, Are crowded to the morgue. Cripples, with a leering hypocrisy. Prey upon a greater hypocrisy. And the words of Christ are hollow between walls of
stone. Luxury tramples Misery, and Misery laughs secretly at
the day when it shall trample Luxury. The churches of the city are open, but empty. The jails are closed, but are full.
