Pen and Shears

My tailor's shears I scorned then;         I strove for something higher:     To edit news--live by the pen--         The pen that shall not tire!     The pen, that was my humble slave,         Has now enslaved its master;     And fast as flows its Midas-wave,         My rebel tears flow faster.     The world I clad once, tailor-hired,         Whilst I in tatters quaked,     Today, you see me well attired,         Who lets the world go naked.     What human soul, how'er oppressed,         Can feel my chained soul's yearning!     A monster woe lies in my breast,         In voiceless anguish burning.     Oh, swing ajar the shop door, do!         I'll bear as ne'er I bore it.     My blood!... you sweatshop leeches, you!...         Now less I'll blame you for it.     I'll stitch as ne'er in former years;         I'll drive the mad wheel faster;     Slave will I be but to the shears;         The pen shall know its master!