We are the hewers and delvers who toil for another's gain, —
The common clods and the rabble, stunted of brow and brain.
What do we want, the gleaners, of the harvest we have reaped?
What do we want, the neuters, of the honey we have heaped?
We want the drones to be driven away from our golden hoard;
We want to share in the harvest; we want to sit at the board;
We want what sword or suffrage has never yet won for man, —
The fruits of his toil God promised when the curse of toil began.
Ye have tried the sword and sceptre, the cross and the sacred word,
In all the years, and the kingdom is not yet here of the Lord.
Is it useless, all our waiting? Are they fruitless, all our prayers?
Has the wheat, while men were sleeping, been oversowed with tares?
What gain is it to the people that a God laid down his life,
If, twenty centuries after, his world be a world of strife?
If the serried ranks be facing each other with ruthless eyes,
And steel in their hands, what profits a Saviour's sacrifice?
Ye have tried, and failed to rule us; in vain to direct have tried.
Not wholly the fault of the ruler, not utterly blind the guide;
Mayhap there needs not a ruler, mayhap we can find the way.
At least ye have ruled to ruin, at least ye have led astray.
What matter if king or consul or president holds the rein,
If crime and poverty ever be links in the bondman's chain?
What careth the burden-bearer that Liberty packed his load,
If Hunger presseth behind him with a sharp and ready goad?
There's a serf whose chains are of paper; there's a king with a parchment crown;
There are robber knights and brigands in factory, field, and town.
But the vassal pays his tribute to a lord of wage and rent;
And the baron's toll is Shylock's, with a flesh-and-blood per cent.
The seamstress bends to her labor all night in a narrow room;
The child, defrauded of childhood, tiptoes all day at the loom.
The soul must starve, for the body can barely on husks be fed;
And the loaded dice of a gambler settle the price of bread.
Ye have shorn and bound the Samson and robbed him of learning's light;
But his sluggish brain is moving, his sinews have all their might.
Look well to your gates of Gaza, your privilege, pride, and caste!
The Giant is blind and thinking, and his locks are growing fast.
The common clods and the rabble, stunted of brow and brain.
What do we want, the gleaners, of the harvest we have reaped?
What do we want, the neuters, of the honey we have heaped?
We want the drones to be driven away from our golden hoard;
We want to share in the harvest; we want to sit at the board;
We want what sword or suffrage has never yet won for man, —
The fruits of his toil God promised when the curse of toil began.
Ye have tried the sword and sceptre, the cross and the sacred word,
In all the years, and the kingdom is not yet here of the Lord.
Is it useless, all our waiting? Are they fruitless, all our prayers?
Has the wheat, while men were sleeping, been oversowed with tares?
What gain is it to the people that a God laid down his life,
If, twenty centuries after, his world be a world of strife?
If the serried ranks be facing each other with ruthless eyes,
And steel in their hands, what profits a Saviour's sacrifice?
Ye have tried, and failed to rule us; in vain to direct have tried.
Not wholly the fault of the ruler, not utterly blind the guide;
Mayhap there needs not a ruler, mayhap we can find the way.
At least ye have ruled to ruin, at least ye have led astray.
What matter if king or consul or president holds the rein,
If crime and poverty ever be links in the bondman's chain?
What careth the burden-bearer that Liberty packed his load,
If Hunger presseth behind him with a sharp and ready goad?
There's a serf whose chains are of paper; there's a king with a parchment crown;
There are robber knights and brigands in factory, field, and town.
But the vassal pays his tribute to a lord of wage and rent;
And the baron's toll is Shylock's, with a flesh-and-blood per cent.
The seamstress bends to her labor all night in a narrow room;
The child, defrauded of childhood, tiptoes all day at the loom.
The soul must starve, for the body can barely on husks be fed;
And the loaded dice of a gambler settle the price of bread.
Ye have shorn and bound the Samson and robbed him of learning's light;
But his sluggish brain is moving, his sinews have all their might.
Look well to your gates of Gaza, your privilege, pride, and caste!
The Giant is blind and thinking, and his locks are growing fast.