The Toilers

Their blind feet drift in the darkness, and no one is leading;
Their toil is the pasture, where hyens and harpies are feeding;
In all lands and always, the wronged, the homeless, the humbled
Till the cliff-like pride of the spoiler is shaken and crumbled,
Till the Pillars of Hell are uprooted and left to their ruin,
And a rose-garden gladdens the places no rose ever blew in,
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.