Behind a linen awning
Sits an ancient wight half-dead,
And a little dear of a girl is
Examining—his head.
On a bended bamboo shouldered,
Bearing a block of stone,
Two worn-out Coolies half-naked
Utter their grunting groan.
Children, almond-eyed beauties,
Impossibly mangy curs,
Take part in the motley stream of
Insouciant passengers.
This is the Dream, the Vision
That comes to me and greets—
The Vision of Retribution
In the labyrinthine streets.
III.
"Caste."
These Chinese toil, and yet they do not starve,
And they obey, and yet they are not slaves.
It is the "free-born" fuddled Englishmen
Who grovel rotting in their living graves.
These Chinese do not fawn with servile lips;
They lift up equal eyes that ask and scan,
Their degradation has escaped at least
That choicest curse of all——the Gentleman!
