This is no time for tears, no place for mournful poses. We have a trust to fill before our brief day closes. A hundred thousand Saccos and Vanzettis starkly die Whose agonizing arms accuse the stormy, blooded sky On battlefields, in dismal mills and dank, dark mines, In fetid tenements and on brave, far-flung picket-lines. Whence comes the hue that stains the workers' flag so red? The rich have dyed it deep with the blood of our slaughtered dead. It is they who have sown the tempest, they who have made it war. Our children shall win to freedom; theirs shall pay the score. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THIRD BOOK OF AIRS: SONG 10 by THOMAS CAMPION ST. FRANCIS' PRAYER by GERALD L. CLARK TO A FRIEND by GEORGE HERBERT CLARKE HALLOWED GROUND by MERLING D. CLYDE THE HAPPY SWAN by FLORENCE CONVERSE THE BOROUGH: LETTER 8. TRADES by GEORGE CRABBE |