Classic Poem

The leaf in the free air despised the root under ground,
The power in the engine scorned the black coal in the pit,
The sunbeam made merry at the expense of the sun,
The moon in its course in the night sky was jealous of the arriving dawn,
So, too, do you, all you purpled ones, aloof, recreantly desert your rooftree.

The patient sluggard stream of the outcast:
These are people, these are untitled masters, these are uncloyed creators,
These bend and break even the proud frowning palaces
These reach you a rejected palm, these threaten you with their own pallor:
Is all pleasant with you? is your ease wholly won?

Have you not taken home with you, in spite of yourself, many unpersuadable faces?
These are the very veins of your body; deny them and you are without life:
These are the money in your purse, the substance and fat of possession,
These are husbandmen, to night and day bequeathed in labor
The sweetest fruit tastes bitter upon the palate of undeserving.
So many are lavish of favors and chary of justice,
Therefore the people must wait, therefore they will toil on and on.

Are you troubled as you go into these crowds and observe that each man of these men, these men who are your slaves, watches the clock hands in their slow sure round?
These are the people, these are the start and finish of social order—
These are the people, who read in the dial outspread
Warnings to you, promises to them, of freedom.