Are these your presences, my clan from Heaven? Are these your hands upon my wounded soul? Mine own, mine own, blood of my blood be with me, Fly by my path till you have made me whole! To Reformers in Despair 'Tis not too late to build our young land right, Cleaner than Holland, courtlier than Japan, Devout like early Rome, with hearths like hers, Hearths that will recreate the breed called man. Why I Voted the Socialist Ticket I am unjust, but I can strive for justice. My life's unkind, but I can vote for kindness. I, the unloving, say life should be lovely. I, that am blind, cry out against my blindness. Man is a curious brute--he pets his fancies-- Fighting mankind, to win sweet luxury. So he will be, tho' law be clear as crystal, Tho' all men plan to live in harmony. Come, let us vote against our human nature, Crying to God in all the polling places To heal our everlasting sinfulness And make us sages with transfigured faces. The following verses were written on the evening of March the first, nineteen hundred and eleven, and printed next morning in the Illinois State Register. They celebrate the arrival of the news that the United States Senate had declared the election of William Lorimer good and valid, by a vote of forty-six to forty. To the United States Senate [Revelation 16: Verses 16-19] And must the Senator from Illinois Be this squat thing, with blinking, half-closed eyes? This brazen gutter idol, reared to power Upon a leering pyramid of lies? And must the Senator from Illinois Be the world's proverb of successful shame, Dazzling all State house flies that steal and steal, Who, when the sad State spares them, count it fame? If once or twice within his new won hall His vote had counted for the broken men; If in his early days he wrought some good-- We might a great soul's sins forgive him then. But must the Senator from Illinois Be vindicated by fat kings of gold? And must he be belauded by the smirched, The sleek, uncanny chiefs in lies grown old? Be warned, O wanton ones, who shielded him-- Black wrath awaits. You all shall eat the dust. You dare not say: "To-morrow will bring peace; Let us make merry, and go forth in lust." What will you trading frogs do on a day When Armageddon thunders thro' the land; When each sad patriot rises, mad with shame, His ballot or his musket in his hand? In the distracted states from which you came The day is big with war hopes fierce and strange; Our iron Chicagos and our grimy mines Rumble with hate and love and solemn change. Too many weary men shed honest tears, Ground by machines that give the Senate ease. Too many little babes with bleeding hands Have heaped the fruits of empire on your knees.