The strong man waits for justice, with lifted soul and eyes, As a sturdy oak will face the storm, and does not break or bow. But listen, my brothers, listen; the child is a child for a day; p. 64If a merciless foot treads down each shoot, how can the forest rise? We are robbing the race when we rob a child; we must rescue the children NOW; We must rescue the little slaves of Greed and send them out to play.

p. 64

p. 65PROTEST

p. 65

To sit in silence when we should protest Makes cowards out of men. The human race Has climbed on protest. Had no voice been raised Against injustice, ignorance and lust The Inquisition yet would serve the law And guillotines decide our least disputes. The few who dare must speak and speak again To right the wrongs of many. Speech, thank God, No vested power in this great day and land Can gag or throttle; Press and voice may cry Loud disapproval of existing ills, May criticise oppression and condemn The lawlessness of wealth-protecting laws That let the children and child-bearers toil To purchase ease for idle millionaires, Therefore do I protest against the boast Of independence in this mighty land. p. 66Call no chain strong which holds one rusted link, Call no land free that holds one fettered slave Until the manacled, slim wrists of babes Are loosed to toss in childish sport and glee, Until the Mother bears no burden save The precious one beneath her heart; until God’s soil is rescued from the clutch of greed And given back to labour, let no man Call this the Land of Freedom.

p. 66

p. 67REWARD

p. 67

Fate used me meanly; but I looked at her and laughed, That none might know how bitter was the cup I quaffed. Along came Joy, and paused beside me where I sat, Saying, ‘I came to see what you were laughing at.’

p. 68THIS IS MY TASK

p. 68

When the whole world resounds with rude alarms Of warring arms, When God’s good earth, from border unto border Shows man’s disorder, Let me not waste my dower of mortal might In grieving over wrongs I cannot right. This is my task: amid discordant strife To keep a clean sweet centre in my life; And though the human orchestra may be Playing all out of key— To tune my soul to symphonies above, And sound the note of love. This is my task.

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