My tailor's shears I scorned then;
        I strove for something higher:
    To edit news--live by the pen--
        The pen that shall not tire!

    The pen, that was my humble slave,
        Has now enslaved its master;
    And fast as flows its Midas-wave,
        My rebel tears flow faster.

    The world I clad once, tailor-hired,
        Whilst I in tatters quaked,
    Today, you see me well attired,
        Who lets the world go naked.

    What human soul, how'er oppressed,
        Can feel my chained soul's yearning!
    A monster woe lies in my breast,
        In voiceless anguish burning.

    Oh, swing ajar the shop door, do!
        I'll bear as ne'er I bore it.
    My blood!... you sweatshop leeches, you!...
        Now less I'll blame you for it.

    I'll stitch as ne'er in former years;
        I'll drive the mad wheel faster;
    Slave will I be but to the shears;
        The pen shall know its master!

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