Spring!
Wilt THOU bring it, O new May Queen? If thou canst, come and rule
us, and take
The laurel, the palm, and the pæan; all bondage but thine we would
break,
And welcome the branch and the dove. But we look, and we hold our
breath,
That is not the visage of Love, and beneath the piled blossoms
lurks--Death!

A Society all of Love and of Brotherhood! Beautiful dream!
But alas for this Promise of May! Do not Labour's Floralia seem
As flower-feasts fair to her followers? Look on the wreaths at her
feet,
Flung by enthusiast hands from the mine, and the mill, and the
street,
Piled flower-offerings, thine, Proletariat Queen of the May!
And what means the new Bona Dea? and what would her suppliants say?
Organised strength, solidarity, power to band and to strike,
Hope that is native to Spring,--and Hate, in all seasons alike;
Mutual trust of the many--and menace malign for the few.
Citizen, capitalist,--ah! the hours of _your_ empire seem few,
An empire ill-gendered, unjust, blindly selfish, and heartlessly
strong
For the crushing of famishing weakness, the rearing of
wealth-founded wrong.
Few, if these throngs have their will, for the fierce proletariat
throbs
For revenge on the full-fed _Bourgeoisie_ which ruthlessly harries
and robs.