Classic Poem

I see my sister,
Stooping over her needle,
Which flashes faster than the wings of the dragon-fly,
Or the fangs of the quick-coiling serpent.
Her fingers are yellow, the fingers of the dead;
The thin fingers of those who have died of hunger.
Without pause, not daring to lose a moment,
She snatches at the crust of her starvation;
Bending close above the garments,
And the murmur of her heart is continually:
" Lest we starve! Lest we starve! "
I see my sisters in the prisoning factories;
Their eyes sunken, their mouths chiseled by grief.
Their hands are the talons of eagles.
The clamorous looms catch up the souls of the workers
And weave them into cloth;
The souls of submissive women woven into cloth;
The woman, left a husk before the loom.
O, the din of the mind-madding looms.
The devil-dance of the shuttles.
They weave up the freshness of Youth,
The silver thread of children's lives,
The morning roses of maidens' cheeks,
The whiteness of mothers' breasts;
Pure ivory bowls of far Eternity
Which should be beautiful.
If they strike they starve — either way they starve —
" Let them starve " cry the masters.
" We too are caught in the great loom —
" We must destroy our rivals. "
This is not war. It is peace. Christian Peace.
The peace that leads to death.