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...THE DARK-EYED GENTLEMAN by THOMAS HARDY MOONRISE IN THE ROCKIES by ELLA (RHOADS) HIGGINSON ON MY FIRST DAUGHTER by BEN JONSON THE BIGLOW PAPERS: 3. WHAT MR. ROBINSON THINKS by JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL MONNA INNOMINATA, A SONNET OF SONNETS: 7 by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI THE WILD DUCK'S NEST by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH |