Classic Poem

Pale-faced is he, as in the door
He stands and trembles visibly, —
With diffidence approaches me,
And says: " Dear editor,

" Since write you must, in prose or rhyme,
Expose my master's knavery, —
Condemn, I pray, the slavery
That dominates our time.

" I labor for a wicked man
Who holds o'er all my being sway, —
Who keeps me harnessed night and day,
Since work I first began.

" No leisure moments do I store,
Yet harsh words only will he speak;
My days are his, from week to week,
But still he cries for more.

" Oh print, I beg you, all I've said,
And ask the world if this be right:
To give the worker wage so slight
That he must want for bread.

" See, I have sinews powerful,
And I've endurance, subtle skill, —
Yet may not use them at my will,
But live a master's tool.

" But oh, without avail do I
Lay bare the woes of workingmen!
Who earns his living by the pen,
Feels not our misery. "

The pallid slave yet paler grew,
And ended here his bitter cry ...
And thus to him I made reply:
" My friend, you judge untrue.

" My strength and skill, like yours, are gain
For others ... Sold! ... You understand?
Your master — well — he owns your hand,
And mine — he owns my brain. "