Charlotte Perkins Gilman's In This Our World and Uncollected Poems

As Flew the Cross

114 | In This Our World Condemn him to no more of human help From living men than he can give to them! Toil of the soldiers on the western plains, Toil of the hardened sailors on the sea, Toil of the sweating ploughman in the field, The engine-driver, digger in the mine, And weary weaver in the roaring mill. Of all the hands and brains and hearts that toil To fill the world with riches day by day, Shall he have naught of this but what one man Can give return for from his own supply? Brother—There is no payment in the world! We work and pour our labor at the feet Of those who are around us and to come. We live and taking our living at the hands Of those who are around us and have been. No one is paid. No person can have more Than he can hold. And none can do beyond The power that’s in him. To each child that’s born Belong as much of all our human good As he can take and use to make him strong. And from each man, debtor to all the world, Is due the fullest fruit of all his powers, His whole life’s labor, proudly rendered up, Not as return—can moments pay and age? But as the simple duty of a man. Can he do less—receiving everything? As Flew the Cross As flew the fiery cross from hand to hand, Kindling the scattered people to one flame, Out-blazing fiercely to a sudden war; As beacon fires flamed up from hill to hill, Crying afar to valleys hidden wide To tell their many dwellers of a fear That made them one—a danger shadowing all!— So flies to-day the torch of living fire, From mouth to mouth, from distant ear to ear; And all the people of all nations hear; The printed word, the living word that tells Of the great glory of the coming day,— The joy that makes us one forevermore! To Labor Shall you complain who feed the world? Who clothe the world? ...