The poet with his teeming song, The wise his deep-delved lore, The maiden with her tender flesh, The strong his sturdy store: Each yielded all he had to give; No harlot could do more. Is there not one to share with me The shame and wrath I own? Is there not one to curse that Thing Or pick up stones to stone-- To rend and wreck and raze to earth-- Or do I stand alone? Raise high the swine-like incubus, Obediently bow! Shatter the flame on rebel lips And wreath that brazen brow! So blaze the banners, ring the bells, Apotheosis now! My kind but scorn your dull "success"-- Your subtle ways to "win," We eat our hearts in solitude Or sear our souls with "sin"; Yet we are better men than you Who fit so smugly in. Go! grovel for the shoddy goods And plod and plot and plan, And if you win the paltry prize Go prize it--if you can, But I would hurl it in your face To hold myself a man! I will not bow with that mad horde And passively obey. I will not think their sordid thoughts Nor say the things they say, Nor wear their shameful uniforms, Nor branded be as they. Nor can they bend me to their will Though black their numbers swell, Nor bribe with hopes of paradise Nor force with fears of hell; Me they may break but never bend,-- I live but to rebel! I go my way rejoicingly, I, outcast, spurned and low, But undreamed worlds may come to birth From seeds that I may sow. And if there's pain within my heart Those fools shall never know. So let me stand back silently, The pageant passes by, And live my life with these new Christs Whom you would crucify, And laugh with mirth to see the mob Do homage to a Lie! THE WEST IS DEAD What path is left for you to tread When hunger-wolves are slinking near-- Do you not know the West is dead? The "blanket-stiff" now packs his bed Along the trails of yesteryear-- What path is left for you to tread? Your fathers, golden sunsets led To virgin prairies wide and clear-- Do you not know the West is dead? Now dismal cities rise instead And freedom is not there nor here-- What path is left for you to tread? Your fathers' world, for which they bled, Is fenced and settled far and near-- Do you not know the West is dead? Your fathers gained a crust of bread, Their bones bleach on the lost frontier; What path is left for you to tread-- Do you not know the West is dead? UP FROM YOUR KNEES (Air: "Song of a Thousand Years") Up from your knees, ye cringing serf men! What have ye gained by whines and tears? Rise! They can never break our spirits Though they should try a thousand years. CHORUS A thousand years, then speed the victory! Nothing can stop us nor dismay. After the winter comes the springtime; After the darkness comes the day.