Anarchism and Other Essays

Ever reviled, accursed, ne'er understood,Thou art the grisly terror of our age."Wreck of all order," cry the multitude,"Art thou, and war and murder's endless rage."O, let them cry. To them that ne'er have strivenThe truth that lies behind a word to find,To them the word's right meaning was not given.They shall continue blind among the blind.But thou, O word, so clear, so strong, so pure,Thou sayest all which I for goal have taken.I give thee to the future! Thine secureWhen each at least unto himself shall waken.Comes it in sunshine? In the tempest's thrill?I cannot tell—but it the earth shall see!I am an Anarchist! Wherefore I willNot rule, and also ruled I will not be!John Henry Mackay.

My country, 'tis of thee,Sweet land of liberty.

The vilest deeds, like poison weeds,Bloom well in prison air;It is only what is good in ManThat wastes and withers there.Pale Anguish keeps the heavy gate,And the Warder is Despair.

Out of his mouth a red, red rose!Out of his heart a white!For who can say by what strange wayChrist brings his will to light,Since the barren staff the pilgrim boreBloomed in the great Pope's sight.

A dying age and a living truth,The living burying the dead.