Classic Poem

The eyes of an old man looking at me from a bench in the park —
They have seared my soul, they have thrust the iron through my spirit,
So that I may no longer sleep quietly
Or walk thoughtlessly upon the earth.
An old man's eyes, wrinkled, watery, abject.
He had a thin shirt and thin lips that could not smile;
His hands were blue and knotted over his patient walking stick,
And the wind cut his feeble wrists,
Searched his collarless, pinched neck
Till his eyes blinked, smarting ...
Am I a coward that I do not go to him,
Lift him instantly from his wretchedness?
Am I afraid, dreading the great horde of unanswered
And unanswerable problems,
Before which governments and religions quail?
What have I done to you, old man,
What have all of us done to you,
Or what have we failed to do,
That you should sit thus gaunt and lacking
While we have fires and homes in plenty? ...
The eyes of an old man gazing at me from a bench in the park,
The Look of an old man, reproachful, dumb.
Around the corner, only a few rods,
A man and a woman stood at a sumptuous window,
Looking at rare rugs from Persia, Egypt and Japan;
Looking at jades and jewels and lacquered objects,
Intent, critical, with the eyes of connoisseurs.
They talked of prices — so lightly they named them!
Sums that would have kept a hundred men in comfort.
They juggled with prices, this man and this woman,
So sleek, so comfortable, in furs and broad-cloth.
Had the old man passed them
Ever so closely, they could not have seen,
Had he brushed their garments
They would have flicked away the touch,
As proud horses whisk annoying flies.
The eyes of an old man, looking at me from a bench in the park,
They have opened a gate in my mind,
Where all the wrongs of the world come trooping in
And will not be kept back.
There is an open place, a sore place, in my mind;
There is a gaping wound in my heart,
And it cries and pains in the night
For thinking of that look
From the old man in the park ...
Nothing will rid me of it —
Nor tears, nor laughter, nor singing;
No dancing will ease it, though I revel the whole night through.
Even my prayers will not wash it away.

Across the street a girl and her companion walked, laughing.
She had no thought for old men;
A young man strode beside her, and his eyes
Were the only eyes in the world.
Girl, I know. I, too, want the splendor and the woe
Of motherhood.
But the duties of a wife are many
And her joys I may not know,
For the eyes of an old man have called me another way,
And I must go.
Old man, I am coming to you; I am coming to you and your kind.
I will put by my woman's dream, I will leave kisses and caresses
Because of you.
I will say to my hot veins: " Come! Burn white with a high purpose.
For the wrongs of the race must be righted,
They cry out loud and will not be hushed.
They cry out loud to the young and to the daring;
These are the called, these are the chosen;
The calm, the cautious, will never do this thing.
They are too burdened with statistics, they have no sympathy with eagerness.
Come, heart! Henceforth, militant, mighty,
Let our love stream forth to mankind.
Love is not alone for pleasure, love is not alone for bliss.
Love is for the rousing of the nations,
The healing of the world! "
The eyes of an old man looking at me from a bench in the park,
They have seared my soul, they have thrust the iron through my spirit,
So that I may no longer sleep quietly
Or walk thoughtlessly upon the earth.