We shall be faithful though we march with Death
And singing storm the barricades of Wrong,
For life is such a little thing to give.
We shall fight on as long as we have breath--
Love in our hearts and on our lips a song--
Without you it were better not to live!
THE VISION MAKER
To EUGENE VICTOR DEBS
Christ-like he spoke. While angry cannon roared,
His vision tinged the torn and bleeding skies,
Men heard in him their own dumb anguished cries,
The heavens seemed to open at his word.
Give us a victim, shouted Caesar's horde,
From his black pyre red warnings shall arise,
The vision perishes, the prophet dies. . .
His truth is far more deadly than our sword!
And deadlier his dream--a quenchless flame,
For which no dungeon fastness can be built . . .
You have but made the convict half divine,
Crowned Truth with martyrdom, yourselves with shame;
Not he, but you are branded deep with guilt;
His cell is holier than your highest shrine.
DISTANCES
Above the moist earth, tremulous and bright,
The stars creep forth--stars that I cannot see;
And to my cell steals, oh, so tenderly
The dewy fragrance of a summer night!
All wan and wistful, somewhere out of sight,
Stalking o'er landscapes wide and dark and free,
My friend, the moon, looks everywhere for me,
Splashing the paths I loved with silver light.
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