Classic Poem

Come, O you pinched starved outcasts, you who are victims,
Come, O children, you who have never flowered — you whose hair was gray in your cradles,
For you, in your interest, to your entrance to life,
I speak, I raise my imperious voice
I do not hate winners or losers,
I would have causes winners and losers, men and women and children never,
I would make my victory your joy and your defeat no man's sorrow,
I would gather your treasures into this empty household,
I would pour this poverty into your cup and let you know its bitter draught,
I would fix a meeting point to which all interests would hasten and where love would flower,
I would pull no structure down but erect all upon stately models, each equal to its needs,
I would not offer equality or make men by yardsticks or peck measures,
I would leave to the rose its offices and to the thorn its offices and to all life free air and journeyed ways without toll.
Dare you go your roughshod way making your natural partners your roadstones?
Who is suppliant? your slave enslaved or you who enslave?
O counterfeit masquerade! O mask long endured torn from your hideous formulas!