Loudly the chanticleer now crows, So loud he makes the morning ring, He'll wake men up, so hard he blows, But till he does I cannot sing. How can I sing while others weep And groan beneath their travailing, And cry a God who's fast asleep And hears them not—how can I sing? How can I sing when I've no salve For putrid sore and deadly sting?— And people sleep in rags and starve And will not wake—how can I sing? There's better men alive to-day Than God or any such poor thing, And yet the nations rob and slay And will not cease.—How can I sing? O chanticleer that sounds the dawn, Now rouse them with your heralding, O chanticleer, you bring the morn, And till you do I cannot sing. For men sleep sound and would not hear And 'twill be vain, my flute-playing, So sound your note, you chanticleer, And wake them up that I may sing. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ASOLANDO: EPILOGUE by ROBERT BROWNING I, TOO by JAMES LANGSTON HUGHES QUATRAIN: FROM EASTERN SOURCES: 1 by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH BOTHWELL: PART 6 by WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN INTO THE SALIENT by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN TO W.A. AND H.H. ON THEIR DEPARTURE TO EUROPE by WILLIAM STANLEY BRAITHWAITE |