Classic Poem

This is the pedigree of degradation:
Authority, father of laws made by the masters,
Laws, father of Privilege, snatched by the masters;
Privilege for the few, father of Poverty, to the many;
Poverty, the black bitch spawning — ignorance — crime — degradation.
I am a reaper in disordered fields
And the sheaves which I gather are
Drunkenness, crime, hate, ugliness, despair.
Palaces of the idle rich
And filthy nests of the debased poor;
Jails and churches hugging each other in a filthy incest.
A killing hunger of the body;
The hunger of the soul denied.

Shall I pity the debased ones and not pity
Those who have wrought the debasement?
Shall I forgive the criminals, haughtily,
And go my way and forget their fashioners?
What trick of the great wheel, invisible,
Gave to them their places, and to me mine?
I have not wrought myself in any part,
Nor have they wrought themselves in any part.
We are thrown off, as bubbles of the sea.
We are thistledown which voyages upon
The unseen air,
Or the globed gossamer of the dandelion
Which the wind seedeth.
There is not one who would not rather rejoice
To walk erect, knowing man's nobility,
Leading his soul up to tranquil heights,
To sit a little while beyond the clouds.
There is none who does not prefer
To walk in the fields, psalm with the birds,
And in the vastness of the morning
Drink the air of grandeur.
Even the makers of poverty shrink from its ugliness,
But they have not the courage to set aside the lesser law for the greater.
They do not know they, too, will be happier when all are happy.