Poem of William Hermanns

                            The Torch

You friends who said "No" where the sun does not rise
and rot in Siberia's camps,
and you wretched refuse where the sun does not set
in the stench of infested swamps,
look at my torch, let your conscience be
the stirring beat of the free.

I tear the sackcloth from man's soul
and revive the ancient glow
in hearts that pound against the chains.
Come, let its clanking grow
till it bursts your wretched den
and looses heart and pen.

The echo of your naked wrath
shall ride on wind and waves
and shake the calculating mind
that feeds the flesh of slaves,
whose hopes err through the glen of gloom,
err blindly to the tomb.

Your sweat of bitterness sows the seed.
When the fields are waving white
I move the torch, and like a scythe
will be in my hand the light.
I shall gather the harvest to my shore:
Huddled masses, no more!

                                        William Hermanns   [P110]