For Freedom laughs at prison bars Her voice re-echoes from the stars; Proclaiming with the tempest's breath A Cause beyond the reach of death! TO FRANCE (May Day, 1919) Mother of revolutions, stern and sweet, Thou of the red Commune's heroic days; Unsheathe thy sword, let thy pent lightning blaze Until these new bastiles fall at thy feet. Once more thy sons march down the ancient street Led by pale men from silent Pere la Chaise; Once more La Carmignole--La Marseillaise Blend with the war drum's quick and angry beat. Ah, France--our--France--must they again endure The crown of thorns upon the cross of death? Is morning here . . .? Then speak that we may know! The sky seems lighter but we are not sure. Is morning here . . .? The whole world holds its breath To hear the crimson Gallic rooster crow! VILLANELLE (Torquato Tasso from his cell at Ste. Anne, 1548) Her beauty haunts me everywhere-- A lone lark singing as it flies-- Sweet, O sweet beyond compare. Amber and gold meet in her hair, Dark pools and starlight in her eyes; Her beauty haunts me everywhere. Slim body, petal soft and fair, Cool lips, cool, cool as evening skies-- Sweet, O sweet beyond compare. Pale fingers delicate and rare, To lull and lure caressing-wise; Her beauty haunts me everywhere. Here in my dungeon dim and bare The last frail not of music dies-- Sweet, O sweet beyond compare. My heart? I steeled it not to care. . . . But God! her love is paradise! Her beauty haunts me everywhere, O sweet, sweet, sweet beyond compare! WESLEY EVEREST (Mutilated and murdered at Centralia, Washington, November 11th, 1919, by a mob of "respectable" businessmen.) Torn and defiant as a wind-lashed reed, Wounded he faced you as he stood at bay; You dared not lynch him in the light of day, But on your dungeon stones you let him bleed; Night came . . . and you black vigilants of Greed . . . Like human wolves, seized hard upon your prey, Tortured and killed . . . and, silent slunk away Without one qualm of horror at the deed. Once . . . long ago . . . do you remember how You hailed Him king for soldiers to deride-- You placed a scroll above His bleeding brow And spat upon Him, scourged Him, crucified . . .? A rebel unto Caesar--then as now Alone, thorn-crowned, a spear wound in his side! THE INDUSTRIAL HERETICS They say we are revolters--that we stirred The workers of all nations to rebel-- And that we would not compromise with Hell, But damned it with our every deed and word. They feared us as we faced them undeterred, And gave us each a coffin of a cell In this steel cave where living corpses dwell-- Hate-throttled here that we might not be heard.