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Laboring women, suffering women
Women who languish in factory and home—
Why stand at a distance, why build not our temple
Of humanity’s joy, and of freedom sublime?
Help us to bear the red banner…
And you’re dead. And you’ve not yet been covered by the ground;
Far through a thousand streets like horses galloping round,
Young and old newsboys spread, rushing about their business,
Hawking papers…
You strangers with the broad, thick-veined hands,
Crooked legs and faces hard as leather,
Smelling of sea and tar
And of the rust of thick anchor chains;
Oh, you, strangers to all nations and tongues…