He is the stone rejected, yet the stone Whereon is built metropolis and throne. Out of his toil come all their pompous shows, Their purple luxury and plush repose! The grime of this bruised hand keeps tender white The hands that never labor, day nor night. His feet that know only the field’s rough floors Send lordly steps down echoing corridors. Yea, this vicarious toiler at the plow Gives that fine pallor to my lady’s brow. And idle armies with their boom and blare, Flinging their foolish glory on the air— He hides their nakedness, he gives them bed, And by his alms their hungry mouths are fed. Not his the lurching of an aimless clod, For with the august gesture of a god— A gesture that is question and command— He hurls the bread of nations from his hand; And in the passion of the gesture flings His fierce resentment in the face of kings. This is the Earth-god of the latter day, Treading with solemn joy the upward way; A lusty god that in some crowning hour Will hurl Gray Privilege from the place of power. These are the inevitable steps that make Unreason tremble and Tradition shake. This is the World-Will climbing to its goal, The climb of the unconquerable Soul— Democracy whose sure insurgent stride Jars kingdoms to their ultimate stone of pride. At Little Virgil’s Window There are three green eggs in a small brown pocket, And the breeze will swing and the gale will rock it, Till three little birds on the thin edge teeter, And our God be glad and our world be sweeter! The Muse of Brotherhood I am in the Expectancy that runs: My feet are in the Future, whirled afar On wings of light. If I have any sons, Let them arise and follow to my star. Some momentary touches of my fire Have warmed the barren ages with a beam: There is no peak beyond my swift desire, There is no beauty deeper than my dream. I make an end of life’s stupendous jest— The merry waste of fortunes by the Few, While the thin faces of the poor are pressed Against the panes—a hungry whirlwind crew. I come to lift the soul-destroying weight, To heal the hurt, to end the foolish loss, To take the toiler from his brutal fate— The toiler hanging on the Labor Cross. I bring to Earth the feel of home again, That men may nestle on her warm, still breast; I bring to wronged, humiliated men The sacred right to labor and to rest.