The heart of the toiling world
Shook with such sudden wrong
That it cried in its wrath to the poet—
Poet, give me a song.

For the strong swift years uplabour,
They shake me where I am weak;
I am strong in the thoughts and purpose,
But have not power to speak.

I thunder from triumph to triumph,
But I crush as I roll along,
And whenever my glory gathers
There is sure to be some wrong.

Then give me a song, thou poet,
A lyric to fit that time
When love shall be one with labour,
And both be held sublime.

And the earnest poet watching,
Saw the throes of the toiling earth,
Heard its voice and the mighty yearning,
And he knew what gave it birth.

So he open'd his prophet bosom,
As he stood by the stream alone,
And a song burst from the poet,
And the world made it its own.