“And what do you get out of it, personally?”

“I?  What do you mean?  I never thought of that question.”

“I mean, money.  What do you make out of it?”

He laughed heartily.

“I get a few jail-sentences, once in a while; now and then a crack over the head with a policeman’s billy, or maybe a peek down the muzzle of a rifle.  I get—­”

“You mean that you’re a martyr?”

“By no means!  I’ve never even thought of being called such.  This is a privilege, this propaganda of ours.  It’s the greatest privilege in the world—­bringing the word of life and hope and joy to a crushed, bleeding and despairing world!”

She thought a moment, in silence.

“You’re a poet, I believe!” said she.

“No, not that.  Only a worker in the ranks.”

“But do you write poetry?”

“I write verses.  You’d hardly call them poetry!”

“Verses?  About Socialism?”

“Sometimes.”

“Will you give me some?”

“What do you mean?”

“Tell me some of them.”

“Of course not!  I can’t recite my verses!  They aren’t worth bothering you with!”

“That’s for me to judge.  Let me hear something of that kind.  If you only knew how terribly much you interest me!”

“You mean that?”

“Of course I do!  Please let me hear something you’ve written!”

He pondered a moment, then in his well-modulated, deep-toned voice began: 

    HESPERIDES.

    I.

    My feet, used to pine-needles, moss and turf,
    And the gray boulders at the lip o’ the sea,
    Where the cold brine jets up its creamy surf,
    Now tread once more these city ways, unloved by me,
    Hateful and hot, gross with iniquity. 
    And so I grieve,
    Grieve when I wake, or at high blinding noon
    Or when the moon
    Mocks this sad Ninevah where the throngs weave
    Their jostling ways by day, their paths by night;
    Where darkness is not—­where the streets burn bright
    With hectic fevers, eloquent of death! 
    I gasp for breath.... 
    Visions have I, visions!  So sweet they seem
    That from this welter of men and things I turn, to dream
    Of the dim Wood-world, calling out to me. 
    Where forest-virgins I half glimpse, half see
    With cool mysterious fingers beckoning! 
    Where vine-wreathed woodland altars sunlit burn,
    Or Dryads dance their mystic rounds and sing,
    Sing high, sing low, with magic cadences
    That once the wild oaks of Dodona heard;
    And every wood-note bids me burst asunder
    The bonds that hold me from the leaf-hid bird. 
    I quaff thee, O Nepenthe!  Ah, the wonder
    Grows, that there be who buy their wealth, their ease
    By damning serfs to cities, hot and blurred,
    Far from thy golden quest, Hesperides!...