And when he does not keep the laws I make That give me power to keep him hard at work, I am his keeper, keeping him in jail. Am I my brother's keeper? Yes, indeed. GOLGOTHA On the Golgotha of mine inmost being There stands a crucifix, And in the deepest recess of my being In perpetuity Good Friday reigns. And always in the stillness of the night, The endless night within mine inmost being, I hear the moaning and the supplications Of him that's crucified within my being. I see the wounds of side and hands and feet, The wounds that glow like rubies in the night, That cast a lurid glare upon the night, Those mystic wounds in number like the senses. Four horrid wounds upon the hands and feet, One on the side, thus making five in all, Just as the senses, making five in all. And in the endless night within my being I hear the moaning and the supplications. "Oh, tear me from my cross," entreats the Christ, "For I am Joy, thy God, the son of Life. Oh, tear me from my cross," entreats the Christ. That cursed instrument of agony, Is conscience; human conscience is the cross-- The cross whereon our Joy is crucified. My Lord, I will redeem thee from thy cross, And give thee burial in mine aching heart, Whence thou shalt rise and henceforth ever reign Over the Kingdom of the blessed flesh. IDOLATRY I stood before a leg in the museum, A marble leg, a mutilated leg, Supported by a rod of polished bronze. This leg of some hermaphroditic god Was carved in Greece, when ancient Greece was young. In deepest reverence I stood and gazed Upon this relic of an absent god. And as I stood I wondered if perchance Idolatry is not this very act, That thus enshrines an ancient piece of stone, Whilst living sculptors are compelled to waste In fruitless idleness that precious power Which carves the Victories of Samothrace. Idolators, ye worship graven stones But are indifferent to the gods that carve them. TO ARTURO GIOVANNITTI Arturo Giovannitti, fellow worker In song and in revolt, sing on! sing on! The battling warriors in the war of classes Have need of your inspired, inspiring voice, You are the rebel, leader, poet, prophet, You have already worn the martyr's crown. If there be in me just one spark of envy, It is that I was not like you in gaol. I envied you that most supreme distinction Of living in the shadow of the cross With all the sacred shades of martyred rebels, A fellow worker of departed Christs. NIGHTMARE