Classic Poem

for William Morris

Now as I look the long procession of the workers trails before me,
At its head this bearded god, a stick in his hand, a song of liberation upon his lips,
Marching with him gods not yet awake, waking, throwing off ages old lethargies,
Lights of revived life streaming from him to them and back again as the ominous pageant of the dispossessed passes, passes, passes.