Читать книгу Selected Works of Voltairine de Cleyre - Voltairine De Cleyre - Страница 26

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We are the souls that crept and cried in the days when they tortured men;

His was the spirit that walked erect, and met the beast in its den.

Ours are the eyes that were dim with tears for the thing they shrunk to see;

His was the glance that was crystal keen with the light that makes men free.

Ours are the hands that were wrung in pain, in helpless pain and shame;

His was the resolute hand that struck, steady and keen to its aim.

Ours are the lips that quivered with rage, that cursed and prayed in a breath:

His was the mouth that opened but once to speak from the throat of Death.

"Assassin, Assassin!" the World cries out, with a shake of its dotard head;

"Germinal!" rings back the grave where lies the Dead that is not dead.

"Germinal, Germinal," sings the Wind that is driving before the Storm;

"Few are the drops that have fallen yet—scattered, but red and warm."

"Germinal, Germinal," sing the Fields, where furrows of men are plowed;

"Ye shall gather a harvest over-rich, when the ear at the full is bowed."

Springing, springing, at every breath, the Word of invincible strife,

The word of the Dead, that is calling loud down the battle ranks of Life!

For these are the Dead that live, though the earth upon them lie:

But the doers of deeds of the Night of the Dead, they are the Live that die.

Torresdale, Pa., August 1, 1900.