Classic Poem

They sing of bells, these poets of the land,
Of old and new, between the cycle's span.
How can they stir the nation's pulsing heart,
Until they ring the brotherhood of man?

Until a just divining rod be laid
To mark the line of caste from door to door;
Until the turner ceases at the wheel
That grinds the starved pinched faces of the poor.

Until the rusty lock and iron bar
Are oiled from the widow's humble cruse;
Until the interest on the note of love
Is more than recompense to those that lose;

Until a newer code be writ for men
Who see, unmoved, a brother moan for bread;
Then ring from tightened reins a tardy dole,
To drop upon the clay when life has fled.

'Tis scanty justice to the deeds of hearts,
Those proud, white marbles that their hands may rear,
And colder, blanker than the life that fades
Without the record of an honest tear.

There 's more of good within the world than seems,
There 's more of love if men would let it in;
Then cast a bell of broader, deeper tone,
And make in truth the hearts of men akin.

To make the world no hollow, empty boast,
A bubble on the lips of those that die,
A fabled figment of a selfish heart,
A silken web upon a polished lie.

I say again with ruder speech and verse
Than follows on a poet's honeyed tongue,
How can they stir the nation's heart until
The common brotherhood of man be rung?