Classic Poem

I joy in the summer chirp of crickets
And the iron rattle of a reaper in the wheatfield
Which the irrigation ditch has laid as an ephod upon the desert.
I think of a far off wheatfield near a chestnut wood,
Where pouched-cheeked chipmunks
Ran swiftly on the fence-rail, thieves for food.
Nature loves thieves who steal for bread.
I joy in the sorceries of the dark chambers
Where the daffodils are begotten.
But O, the Oppressed of the world
Who are blighted in darker chambers.
There is no stir in their blood
Because the earth is new-born.
No joy in the coming of grass,
Nor delight in the gayety of flowers,
Glad in their resurrection.
They are ignorant of the tang
Of damp, delicious, new-plowed fields;
And hear not the morning-song of birds,
Happy priestlings of the Dawn;
Nor ever track the sweeping circle
Of Earth's beautiful parade.
They catch no message from clouds;
Nor feel the silent confidences of the stars.
For them no fellowship with wayside grass,
No soothing, sibilant soliloquies of leaves,
No leafy laughter.
But the day of atonement will come.
Who can say when the new day comes?
Who can say of the Dawn, " It is here " ?
Hawks devour pretty speckled thrushes
But the song of the thrush is sweeter.
It is remembered.
The Masters say arrogantly: " Shall we not triumph
" In the strength which is ours? "
Their strength is the Law and the Law is falsity.
It is of their own making.
The lesser robbers rob because of their necessity.
They are outlaws, criminals.
But the greater robbers plunder within the laws
Which they themselves have made.
They are respectable.
To be respectable is to be contemptible.
Let none ever say of me, " He was respectable. "
The train-robber, the highwayman,
All those who boldly take and boldly kill,
Are kin to Drake, Raleigh, Cortez, Caesar.
But the robbers who
From the safety of their leathern chairs,
Steal from the laborer his sweat,
Are without courage.
They harness baby-fingers to toil for milk,
Till pitying Death opens the gate
Which leads too late to grass and flowers.
I will preach justice till the end of my days.
I will ask everyone, " Who shall redeem the people? "
None can save a people, but only the people themselves.
Words live in acts.
Dreamers exalt, but Doers
Water the exaltation with their blood.

O the dumb herd —
Consenting chattels.
Will they never dare?
They are sheep who resist not
The wolf and cougar and are devoured.

Let each one dare to be himself.
The path is steep and Pity persuades aside.
But be pitiless unto greater things.
Shall the larger design lack our loyalty?
Let each say:
" I must prune that there may be fruit.
" I must dare to suffer
" And to make others suffer,
" Even those I love,
" That the great purpose be not thwarted.
" Nature's extremest care is that I be myself.
" If I surrender myself to another even for pity
" I have thwarted the great purpose.
" Life is myself
" And greater than myself;
" And I am Life. "

Unless you are remorselessly yourself,
You are a dwarfed
And stunted thing,
Wanderer in a desert,
Running about in a lost circle,
Cheated by the things which are not.

Out of the silence I hear a whisper.
It thrills me and enfolds me,
Like the cool night wind
Which passes over the desert
After the heat of the day.
I see a vision taller and brighter than the mirage:
A multitude with palms and lyres and songs and swords.
Above them an angel, whose face I cannot see.
An angel with a sword of blinding light.
I have that vision.

TRUTH:

If but one see it, it will come.
O Poet, let your living be its sacrament,
And your dying like the planting of lilies in wet ground,
That your dust may bloom again,
In a fragrant resurrection.