| Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). Poetry: A Magazine of Verse. 1912–22. | | | | The Worker | | By David Greenhood |
| | | I’VE towered above the hilt of my spade, | |
| Knowing with what muscle-gnawing action, | |
| I mold the earth into usable shape; | |
| And there rises within me, what is more pain to stay … | |
| But the desert is answerless. | 5 |
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| The desert is blue and yellow and answerless. | |
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| I’ve risen above the hairy smell of me; | |
| I’ve held down my rigored fists, | |
| I’ve stood high over shoulders | |
| To the mind of me … | 10 |
| But the mind’s unresponsive as lead, | |
| And the lips are sealed as with lead. | |
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| As a leaden bell with a song it must sing. | |
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| I’ve faced men with God in their faces, | |
| I’ve shown them the crucifixion in mine; | 15 |
| From a breast not yet washed of oil and mud of labor | |
| I’ve loosed my blood on foreign lands for men; | |
| And I’ve cried aloud, | |
| But it was not the cry of battle pain. | |
| Now the people wave flags in drunken triumph, | 20 |
| And smother my only song in street dust and confetti. | |
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| With my spade I’ve changed the desert, | |
| With the fire of me I’ve melted the lead: | |
| But, men, | |
| Even Christ could not make you listen! | 25 | | | |
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