Classic Poem

This house of pain where we must dwell,
Whose hand raised high its towers?
What heart to other hearts did tell
The woe and want of ours?

It was the mighty heart of All;
It was the mighty hand
Of All that rise and rule and fall
Within the mighty land.

How strange to feel, weak and alone,
By strength companionéd;
How strange to be, though all unknown,
Thus known and housed and fed.

But what are we to them, to All,
As idle-ill we lie,
And eat their bread, their helpers call,
Nor help not till we die?

As we were lolling queens and kings
In robes of pain arrayed,
The folk from far its tribute brings—
At our pale feet 't is laid.

A bed of pain for each a throne;
To rule in very deed,
What sceptre should we call our own?
Ah this—our utter need.