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...THE TESTAMENT OF CRESSEID by ROBERT HENRYSON THE SIGN OF THE CROSS by JOHN HENRY NEWMAN EPITAPH by MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU AGAMEMNON: THE BEACONS by AESCHYLUS PEARLS OF THE FAITH: 25. AL-MUHIZZ by EDWIN ARNOLD COMFORT by RUTH FITCH BARTLETT THE LAST RAY by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN |