Shrinks, and falters and is dim
    When he tries to make it out: 
    What the torture is about.—­
    Why he breathes, a fugitive
    Whom the World forbids to live. 
    Why he earned for his abode,
    Habitation of the toad! 
    Why his fevered day by day
    Will not serve to drive away
    Horror that must always haunt:—­
    ... Want ... Want!
    Nightmare shot with waking pangs;—­
    Tightening coil, and certain fangs,
    Close and closer, always nigh ...
    ... Why?... Why?

Why he labors under ban That denies him for a man.  Why his utmost drop of blood Buys for him no human good; Why his utmost urge of strength Only lets Them starve at length;—­ Will not let him starve alone; He must watch, and see his own Fade and fail, and starve, and die. . . . . . . . ... Why?... Why? . . . . . . .  Heart-beats, in a hammering song, Heavy as an ox may plod, Goaded—­goaded—­faint with wrong, Cry unto some ghost of God ... How long?... How long?
                   ... How long?

III

Seek him yet.  Search for him! 
You shall find him, spent and grim;
In the prisons, where we pen
These unsightly shards of men. 
Sheltered fast;
Housed at length;
Clothed and fed, no matter how!—­
Where the householders, aghast,
Measure in his broken strength
Nought but power for evil, now. 
Beast-of-burden drudgeries
Could not earn him what was his: 
He who heard the world applaud
Glories seized by force and fraud,
He must break,—­he must take!—­
Both for hate and hunger’s sake. 
He must seize by fraud and force;
He must strike, without remorse! 
Seize he might; but never keep. 
Strike, his once!—­Behold him here. 
(Human life we buy so cheap,
Who should know we held it dear?)

No denial,—­no defence
From a brain bereft of sense,
Any more than penitence. 
But the heart-beats now, that plod
Goaded—­goaded—­dumb with wrong,
Ask not even a ghost of God

                    ... How long?

When the Sea gives up its dead, Prison caverns, yield instead This, rejected and despised; This, the Soiled and Sacrificed! Without form or comeliness; Shamed for us that did transgress Bruised, for our iniquities, With the stripes that are all his! Face that wreckage, you who can. It was once the Singing Man.

IV

    Must it be?—­Must we then
    Render back to God again
    This His broken work, this thing,
    For His man that once did sing? 
    Will not all our wonders do? 
    Gifts we stored the ages through,
    (Trusting that He had forgot)—­
    Gifts the Lord required not?