A Poem by my Granddad...
Dost thou despise
The Radical?
Of rabid speech and
shaggy locks
And flaming eyes,
Thou safe and sane
Conservative?
And dost thou smile,
the while
In thy vast pride
And comfort-calloused
hide?
And Yet a man
Who calmly can
Behold, unmoved,
The awful, useless,
Self-inflicted tragedies
Of his own time and
race
And not be swept,
betimes
From off his feet...
Who never flames with
fury
And does not long
To blast the wretched
wrong...
Is scarce a man!
And often is not fit
to wash the feet
Of him who shouts
and pleads
Upon the street.
Arthur
D. Weage