Poetry Archives

I am the people—the mob—the crowd—the mass.
Do you know that all the great work of the world is
     done through me?
I am the workingman, the inventor, the maker of the
     world’s food and clothes.
I am the audience that witnesses history. The Napoleons
     come from me and the Lincolns. They die. And
     then I send forth more Napoleons and Lincolns.
I am the seed ground. I am a prairie that will stand
     for much plowing. Terrible storms pass over me.
     I forget. The best of me is sucked out and wasted.
     I forget. Everything but Death comes to me and
     makes me work and give up what I have. And I
     forget.
Sometimes I growl, shake myself and spatter a few red
     drops for history to remember. Then—I forget.
When I, the People, learn to remember, when I, the
     People, use the lessons of yesterday and no longer
     forget who robbed me last year, who played me for
     a fool—then there will be no speaker in all the world
     say the name: “The People,” with any fleck of a
     sneer in his voice or any far-off smile of derision.
The mob—the crowd—the mass—will arrive then.