Selected Works of Voltairine de Cleyre. Voltairine De Cleyre
London, October, 1897.
LOVE'S COMPENSATION
I went before God, and he said,
"What fruit of the life I gave?"
"Father," I said, "It is dead,
And nothing grows on the grave."
Wroth was the Lord and stern:
"Hadst thou not to answer me?
Shall the fruitless root not burn,
And be wasted utterly?"
"Father," I said, "forgive!
For thou knowest what I have done;
That another's life might live
Mine turned to a barren stone."
But the Father of Life sent fire
And burned the root in the grave;
And the pain in my heart is dire
For the thing that I could not save.
For the thing it was laid on me
By the Lord of Life to bring;
Fruit of the ungrown tree
That died for no watering.
Another has gone to God,
And his fruit has pleased Him well;
For he sitteth high, while I—plod
The dry ways down towards hell.
Though thou knowest, thou knowest, Lord,
Whose tears made that fruit's root wet;
Yet thou drivest me forth with a sword,
And thy Guards by the Gate are set.
Thou wilt give me up to the fire,
And none shall deliver me;
For I followed my heart's desire,
And I labored not for thee:
I labored for him thou hast set
On thy right hand, high and fair;
Thou lovest him, Lord; and yet
'Twas my love won Him there.
But this is the thing that hath been,
Hath been since the world began—
That love against self must sin,
And a woman die for a man.
And this is the thing that shall be,
Shall be till the whole world die,
Kismet:—My doom is on me! Why murmur since I am I?
Philadelphia, August, 1898.
THE ROAD BUILDERS
("Who built the beautiful roads?" queried a friend of the present order, as we walked one day along the macadamised driveway of Fairmount Park.)
I saw them toiling in the blistering sun,
Their dull, dark faces leaning toward the stone,
Their knotted fingers grasping the rude tools,
Their rounded shoulders narrowing in their chest,
The sweat drops dripping in great painful beads.
I saw one fall, his forehead on the rock,
The helpless hand still clutching at the spade,
The slack mouth full of earth.
And he was dead.
His comrades gently turned his face, until
The fierce sun glittered hard upon his eyes,
Wide open, staring at the cruel sky.
The blood yet ran upon the jagged stone;
But it was ended. He was quite, quite dead:
Driven to death beneath the burning sun,
Driven to death upon the road he built.
He was no "hero," he; a poor, black man,
Taking "the will of God" and asking naught;
Think of him thus, when next your horse's feet
Strike out the flint spark from the gleaming road;
Think that for this, this common thing, The Road,
A human creature died; 'tis a blood gift,
To an o'erreaching world that does not thank.
Ignorant, mean and soulless was he? Well—
Still human; and you drive upon his corpse.
Philadelphia, July 24, 1900.
ANGIOLILLO
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.
AVE ET VALE
Comrades, what matter the watch-night tells
That a New Year comes or goes?
What to us are the crashing bells
That clang out the Century's close?
What to us is the gala dress?
The whirl of the dancing feet?
The glitter and blare in the laughing press,
And din of the merry street?
Do