Anton Sosnowski, from the Shakspeare School Where he assists the janitor, sweeps and dusts, The day now done, sits by a smeared up table Munching coarse bread and drinking beer; before him The evening paper spread, held down or turned By claw-like hands, covered with shiny scars. He broods upon the war news, and his fate Which keeps him from the war, looks up and sees His scarred face in the mirror over the wainscot; His lashless eyes and browless brows and head With patches of thin hair. And then he mutters Hot curses to himself and turns the paper And curses Germany, and asks revenge For Poland's wrongs. And what is this he sees? The picture of his ruin and his hate, Wert Rufus Fox! This leader of the bar Is made the counselor of the city, now The city takes gas, cars and telephones And runs them for the people. So this man Grown rich through machinations against the people, Who fought the people all his life before, Abettor, aider, thinker for the slickers Regraters and forestallers and engrossers, Is now the friend, adviser of the city, Which he so balked and thwarted, growing rich, Feared, noted, bowed to for the very treason For which he is so hated, yet deferred to. And Anton looks upon the picture, reads About the great man's ancestry here printed, And all the great achievements of his life; Once president of the bar association, And member of this club and of that club. Contributor to charities and art, A founder of a library, a vestryman. And Anton looks upon the picture, trembles Before the picture's eyes. They are the eyes Of Innocent the Tenth, with cruelty And cunning added--eyes that see all things And boulder jaws that crush all things--the jaws That place themselves at front of drifts, are placed By that world irony which mocks the good, And gives the glory and the victory To strength and greed. Anton Sosnowski looks Long at the picture, then at his own hands, And laughs maniacally as he takes the mug With both hands like a bird with frozen claws, These broken, burned off hands which handle bread As they were wooden rakes. And in a mirror Beside the table in the wall, smeared over With steam from red-hots, kraut and cookery, Of smoking fats, fixed by the dust in blurs, And streaks, he sees his own face, horrible For scars and splotches as of leprosy; The eyes that have no lashes and no brows; The bullet head that has no hair, the ears Burnt off at top. So comes it to this Pole Who sees beside the picture of the lawyer The clear cut face of Elenor Murray--yes, She gave her spirit to the war, is dead, Her life is being sifted now. But Fox Lives for more honors, and by honors covers His days of evil.