Man of the flame-eyes
And mouth with the bitter twist of in-grown laughter,
And little bald man . . . whose seeming stillness
Is akin to the velocity of a spinning star
Holding its perfect poise-
You two yea-sayers
Beetling over the little deniers,
Two great levelers, building from the earth up, among
puttiers and pluggers of rotten piles-
You of the rich life, running in ample measure, amidst
life deleted of its old raw fire as earth is deleted
of its coal and iron- You be mighty hunters and keepers,
Trotsky and Lenine-
Yet can you hold . . . the unconstrainable One
Of the slow and flaming deaths
And multiple resurrections ?

Hands, reaching in hundreds of millions,
Backs, straightening under the keeling floor of the world,
Can you hold the great white bird?-
She that sweeps low over the chain-gangs
When they glance up from their stone7breaking
Into morning's burning gold;
She that goes down into underground cells,
Sending the cool wind of her wings
Through unsevering stone . . .
And departs, unbeknown, from those who announce her,
Saying: 'Lo, she is ours!'

Ah, what a mighty destiny shall be yours,
Should you persuade her-
The Unconstrainable One
Who has slid out of the arms of so many lovers,
Leaving'not'a feather in their hands!