I see a land that lies a helpless prey To wealthy cliques and gamblers and their slaves, The huckster politicians: a poor land That less and less can make her heart-wish law.
Yea, but I see a land where some few brave Raise clear eyes to the Struggle that must come, Reaching firm hands to draw the doubters in, Preaching the gospel: “Drill and drill and drill!” Yea, but I see a land where best of all The hope of victory burns strong and bright!
“Yes, let Art go, if it must be That with it men must starve— If Music, Painting, Poetry Spring from the wasted hearth!”
Yes, let Art go, till once again Through fearless heads and hands The toil of millions and the pain Be passed from out the lands:
Till from the few their plunder falls To those who’ve toiled and earned But misery’s hopeless intervals From those who’ve robbed and spurned.
Yes, let Art go, without a fear, Like autumn flowers we burn, For, with her reawakening year, Be sure she will return!—
Return, but greater, nobler yet Because her laurel crown With dew and not with blood is wet, And as our queen sit down!
I came to buy a book. It was a shop Down in a narrow quiet street, and here They kept, I knew, these socialistic books. I entered. All was bare, but clean and neat. The shelves were ranged with unsold wares; the counter Held a few sheets and papers. Here and there Hung prints and calendars. I rapped, and straight A young girl came out through the inner door. She had a clear and simple face; I saw She had no beauty, loveliness, nor charm, But, as your eyes met those grey light-lit eyes Like to a mountain spring so pure, you thought: “He’d be a clever man who looked, and lied!” I asked her for the book. . . . We spoke a little. . . . Her words were as her face was, as her eyes. Yes, she’d read many books like this of mine: Also some poets, Shelley, Byron too, And Tennyson, but ‘poets only dreamed!’ Thus, then, we talked, until by chance I spoke A phrase and then a name. ’Twas “Henry George.” Her face lit up. O it was beautiful, Or never woman’s face was! “Henry George?” She said. And then a look, a flush, a smile, Such as sprung up in Magdalenè’s cheek When some voice uttered Jesus, made her angel. She turned and pointed up the counter. I, Loosing mine eyes from that ensainted face, Looked also. ’Twas a print, a common print, The head and shoulders of some man. She said, Quite in a whisper: “_That’s him_, _Henry George_!”