In scarlet hue stand old and new—­
    His clothes, his board, his bed. 
There is blood in the cup he lifts up,
    And crimson in his bread;
And e’en his floors and walls and doors
    Are marked with gory red.

The hangman’s face is dull and grey,
    And soulless are his eyes;
That he may live from day to day,
    Some fellow-being dies. 
The tears of the young are naught to him,
    Nor ages stifled cries.

He does not know the sob of woe;
    Black fear he does not know;
Hardly a word from his lips are heard,
    And his ears heed no appeal. 
His cruel chin reveals within
    A nature hard as steel,
The hangman’s thoughts are not of love,
    Nor are they yet of hate;
They do not lift themselves above
    The dungeon’s iron gate;
Their interests are the knotted rope
    And the heavy gallows weight.

His mind is filled with the counted killed
    And the hope of more to come. 
And the price they fling when men must swing,
    Which makes a goodly sum;
For his reason waits on the law’s black hates,
    And, save for this, stands dumb.

The hangman’s soul lies stiff and stark. 
    The hangman’s heart is dead;
And the need of friends is a burnt out spark
For he is marked with the murder’s mark. 
    And with blood upon his head.

In times of rest he knows no guest—­
    No hand will touch him, none! 
Nor woman mild nor happy child
    Greets him when day is done;
And he walks the night, a poison blight,
    An outcast of the sun

=The Children of the Looms=

Oh, what are these that plod the road
  At dawn’s first hour and evening’s chime,
Each back bent as beneath a load;
  Each sallow face afoul with grime? 
Nay, what are these whose little feet
  Scarce bear theme on to toil or bed! 
Do hearts within their bosoms beat? 
  Surely, ’twere better that they were dead.

Babes are they, domed to cruel dooms. 
  Who labor all the livelong day;
Who stand beside the roaring looms
  Nor ever turn their eyes away;
Like parts of those machines of steel: 
  Like wheels that whirl, like shuttles thrown;
Without the power to dream or feel;
  With all of childishness.

Brothers and sisters of the flowers,
  Fit playmates of the bird and bee. 
For you grow soft the springtime hours;
  For you the shade lies neath the tree. 
For you life smiles the whole day long;
  For you she breathes each breath in bliss,
And turns all sound into song;
  And you, and you have come to this!

Is’t not enough that man should toil
  To fill the hands that clutch for gold? 
Is’t not enough that women toil. 
  And in life’s summertime grow old? 
Is’t not enough that death should pale
  To see men welcome him as rest;
But must the children drudge and fall,
  And perish on the mothers breast?