She was taught desire in the street, Not at the angels' feet. By the good no word was said Of the worth of the bridal bed. The secret was learned from the vile, Not from her mother's smile. Home spoke not. And the girl Was caught in the public whirl. Do you say "She gave consent: Life drunk, she was content With beasts that her fire could please?" But she did not choose disease Of mind and nerves and breath. She was trapped to a slow, foul death. The door was watched so well, That the steep dark stair to hell Was the only escaping way . . . "She gave consent," you say? Some think she was meek and good, Only lost in the wood Of youth, and deceived in man When the hunger of sex began That ties the husband and wife To the end in a strong fond life. Her captor, by chance was one Of those whose passion was done, A cold fierce worm of the sea Enslaving for you and me. The wages the poor must take Have forced them to serve this snake. Yea, half-paid girls must go For bread to his pit below. What hangman shall wait his host Of butchers from coast to coast, New York to the Golden Gate-- The merger of death and fate, Lust-kings with a careful plan Clean-cut, American? In liberty's name we cry For these women about to die. O mothers who failed to tell The mazes of heaven and hell, Who failed to advise, implore Your daughters at Love's strange door, What will you do this day? Your dear ones are hidden away, As good as chained to the bed, Hid like the mad, or the dead:-- The glories of endless years Drowned in their harlot-tears: The children they hoped to bear, Grandchildren strong and fair, The life for ages to be, Cut off like a blasted tree, Murdered in filth in a day, Somehow, by the merchant gay! In liberty's name we cry For these women about to die. What shall be said of a state Where traps for the white brides wait? Of sellers of drink who play The game for the extra pay? Of statesmen in league with all Who hope for the girl-child's fall? Of banks where hell's money is paid And Pharisees all afraid Of pandars that help them sin? When will our wrath begin? Where is David, the Next King of Israel? Where is David? . . . O God's people, Saul has passed, the good and great. Mourn for Saul the first-anointed-- Head and shoulders o'er the state. He was found among the Prophets: Judge and monarch, merged in one. But the wars of Saul are ended And the works of Saul are done. Where is David, ruddy shepherd, God's boy-king for Israel? Mystic, ardent, dowered with beauty, Singing where still waters dwell? Prophet, find that destined minstrel Wandering on the range to-day, Driving sheep and crooning softly Psalms that cannot pass away. "David waits," the prophet answers, "In a black notorious den, In a cave upon the border With four hundred outlaw men.