Do they not hold that man is made In the image of his God? So we refuse to desecrate The image of their God. No longer will we soil our limbs, These beautiful, these wondrous limbs With filthy, fetid rags. Where is the beast so wild, The reptile or the worm so base in kind, Would not disdain the rags "creation's kings" Disgrace their bodies with? Oh be not shocked at our forced nakedness, Ye masters who refuse to clothe your slaves. Do you not steal the wool that we have shorn, The cloth we weave, the garments that we made? You stole our clothes, behold us naked now. Let us arise and from our bodies tear The fetid uniform that brands us slaves. In countless masses let us rally forth And through each pore of our free body shout Our right to life, to liberty, and joy. I'VE SEEN A PRINCESS I've read of princesses in fairy tales And I have sometimes dreamed of princesses But not until to-day have I beheld, Beheld or ever spoken to a princess. Yes, I have seen and spoken to a princess In body and in mind; in thought and gesture, Indeed, in every way a perfect princess. Since I am not some mighty potentate In whom it would not seem as sheer presumption To lay his heart and domains at her feet, Would I at least could be a humble page Forever in attendance on his princess, To serve her and to worship her in silence, And be allowed as wages for his hire To breathe within the shadow of her charms. But though my princess be reality, My hopes, my aspirations, my desires, Alas, are dreams, mere dreams, alas, mere dreams. THE GREAT DISCARD I see a mighty junk-heap rising high, Old bibles, crosses, crescents, six-point stars And other symbols, idol's fetiches-- The bloody tools of greed and superstition, That have tormented man for centuries, Disfiguring his body and his mind. I see the flags of all the various nations, In whose defense men slaughtered one another Upon this junk-heap also; and the books Wherein the laws are writ, that give to man The power over man; And all the institutions that have helped To make of man an abject slave or tyrant, These, too, are on this junk-heap. THE SCULPTOR'S RHAPSODY I am a God! I am drunk with the joy of creating. At my touch form comes out of chaos. With a handful of clay I build monuments, Vaster than the pyramids, More mysterious than the Sphinx, As startling as the Colossus of Rhodes. My statues are austere as ancient cathedrals, Their silhouette effaces the sky, Their shadows engulf entire cities. I am a God! I am drunk with the joy of creating. ATAVISM