Classic Poem

Have you the right to sit fed at your table or warmed at your fire while your wheat is sowed in starvation and your coal is mined in the north wind?
God! You have not stolen a cent from any man you have wronged! but think what you have stolen from yourself!
Pour into the yawning hells all your sacrilegious incomes! they but measure your departures from yourself.

Face to face, the house of the farm hand, the palace of the money king,
(The mails pass up and down the road, never across),
Though two men were seas apart they would not be farther separated,
I pass between — I take one hand from each.

Born in the shadow, graded by the law over the gutter's edge,
Consort of reptile despairs, living to grope not see,
He raged in blindness, Samson's mate, and wrecked
The four stanchions of my boasted house.