WHAT you have suffered shall fade, All you endeavoured shall fall, They've tossed you a job at an easy trade So you will forget it all. For a little brown bird called Compromise Has come to peck at your living eyes. You that I reckoned a sport! Take your rotten reward! Your old red violence shall grow meek For a few safe bob a week And a few less hours a day. You will call the old way hard. You will curse the old hard way, Now you're making this nice clean start; Old Fate, with his tongue in his shrunken cheek, Will give you a fraction of what you sought -- You that I reckoned a sport! -- Will silence your little heart With a little pay. So long! You will take their wage, They'll pass you a penny star; But I shall nurse my rage Lest I grow as you are. Lest I should swear by my wage When I should have sworn by my star! Oh, I shall revolt to the last, My corpse would tear its shroud; I'd grip Death's wind-pipe fierce and fast If a man could fight a cloud! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TAPS by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON IMPRESSIONS OF FRANCOIS-MARIE AROUET (DE VOLTAIRE) by EZRA POUND |