Classic Poem

We sit there and whisper and wonder
Of the woes that are coming on earth,
When the stooped, silent toilers in thunder
Shall ask what the ages are worth.

There'll be curses and cries for the reasons,
And a tempest of feet on the stairs;
And kings will turn white in their treasons,
And prelates grow pale at their prayers.

There'll be cries — there'll be beating of hammers,
For the anarchs will gather again!
There'll be knocking at gates — there'll be clamors
By night — there'll be whirlwinds of men.