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Good comrades of the Press
As of Poetry also,
Flowers of boorish baseness
By what choice God chosen,
By what God of all baseness?
Colleagues unbrotherly to me,
Who nearly buried me forever
Under all that silence—why?—
Ever since '70 dreadful,
Colleagues unbrotherly to me,
Why that silence unbrotherly
For so many long years,
And all at once as though angry
So much clamor, as of fears?
Why that change unbrotherly?
Ah, if I could've been stifled
Under that pile of journals
Where my name is feinted
Found like greenish walnuts
Swelling near to bursted!
This they mean by Glory!
—With a right to famine,
To great black Misery
And nearly even to vermin—
This they mean by Glory!
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