He begs and coaxes, threatens, yells,
For shallow glory thirsting,
In fact he's but a bag of wind
That's swollen up to bursting.
The smiling bosses think he'd like
To boodle from their manger;
And as he never mentions STRIKE,
They know there is no danger.
And all the while he spouts and spiels
He's musing undetected
On what a helluva snap he'll have
When once he is elected!
RETURNING
The scene is wan with fading light,
The trees are drooped in hazy dreams,
A far-off cottage window gleams—
A tiny beacon, lone and bright.
The evening sounds are faintly dear—
An echo of the workday strife,
While thrilling with a strange new life
A hidden bird is warbling near.
And one rough shadow, blurred and grey,
Creeps slowly on with feet of lead—
A slave who trudges home to bed
To rest him for another day.
He pauses as he passes by
To catch each liquid dream-like note;
A sob has risen in his throat
Somehow, without him knowing why. . .
27
