What wingéd shape, with waving torch aflame,
Wild with winds of March, and streaming hair
Above the storm clouds, doth to men declare
What message, and a memory doth claim?
A star through drifting smoke of praise and blame -
The toilers' beacon, still to re-appear
With spring-tide hopes new quickening year by year
Since bright in Freedom's dawn the COMMUNE came.
Maligned, betrayed, short-lived to act and teach,
Whose blood lies still upon the hands that slew:
E'en now, when Labour knocks upon the gate
That shuts on Privilege, He thinks of you,
And what men dared and suffered, and their fate
Who ruled a City, once, for all and each.
Walter Crane
http://www.waltercrane.org.uk/
