I cannot see the stars and flowers,
Nor hear the lark's soprano ring,
Because a ruddy darkness lowers
For ever, and the tempests sing.
I see the strong coerce the weak,
And labor overwrought rebel;
I hear the useless treadmill creak,
The prisoner, cursing in his cell;
I see the loafer-burnished wall;
I hear the rotting match-girl whine;
I see the unslept switchman fall;
I hear the explosion in the mine. . . .
I see along the heedless street
The sandwichmen trudge through the mire;
I hear the tired, quick-tripping feet
Of sad, gay girls who ply for hire.
The glowing blast, the fire-shot smoke
Where guns are forged and armor plate,
The mammoth hammer's pounding stroke,
The din of our dread iron date.