Classic Poem

These things shall be, these things shall be,
Nor help shall come from the scarlet skies
Till the people rise!
Till the people rise my arm is weak;
I cannot speak till the people speak;
When men are dumb, my voice is dumb —
I cannot come till my people come.
. . . . . . . . .
They are my mouth, my breath, my soul!
I wait their summons to make me whole.