Poetry Archives

No, not from tuning-forks of gold
  Take I my key for singing;
From Upper Seats no order bold
  Can set my music ringing;
But groans the slave through sense of wrong,
  And naught my voice can smother;
As flame leaps up, so leaps my song
  For my oppressed brother.

And thus the end comes swift and sure…
  Thus life itself must leave me;
For what can these my brothers poor
  In compensation give me,
Save tears for ev’ry tear and sigh?—
  (For they are rich in anguish).
A millionaire of tears am I,
  And mid my millions languish.