voiceless anguish burning. Oh, swing ajar the shop door, do! I’ll bear as ne’er I bore it. My blood!... you sweatshop leeches, you!... Now less I’ll blame you for it. I’ll stitch as ne’er in former years; I’ll drive the mad wheel faster; Slave will I be but to the shears; The pen shall know its master! For Hire Work with might and main, Or with hand and heart, Work with soul and brain, Or with holy art, Thread, or genius’ fire— Make a vest, or verse— If ’tis done for hire, It is done the worse. A Fellow Slave Pale-faced is he, as in the door He stands and trembles visibly,— With diffidence approaches me, And says: “Dear editor, “Since write you must, in prose or rhyme, Expose my master’s knavery, Condemn, I pray, the slavery That dominates our time. “I labor for a wicked man Who holds o’er all my being sway,— Who keeps me harnessed night and day. Since work I first began. “No leisure moments do I store, Yet harsh words only will he speak; My days are his, from week to week, But still he cries for more. “Oh print, I beg you, all I’ve said, And ask the world if this be right: To give the worker wage so slight That he must want for bread. “See, I have sinews powerful, And I’ve endurance, subtle skill,— Yet may not use them at my will, But live a master’s tool. “But oh, without avail do I Lay bare the woes of workingmen! Who earns his living by the pen, Feels not our misery.” The pallid slave yet paler grew, And ended here his bitter cry... And thus to him I made reply: “My friend, you judge untrue. “My strength and skill, like yours, are gain For others... Sold!... You understand? Your master—well—he owns your hand, And mine—he owns my brain.” The Jewish May May has come from out the showers, Sun and splendor in her train. All the grasses and the flowers Waken up to life again. Once again the leaves do show, And the meadow blossoms blow, Once again through hills and dales Rise the songs of nightingales. Wheresoe’er on field or hillside With her paint-brush Spring is seen,— In the valley,
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