From the March 1920 issue of the Socialist Standard
What though you beat the earth and cry aloud
To all the dead that you have loved and lost;
Shall one arise and cast aside his shroud
To help and save you, hell-bound, tempest tossed
On the sad world's waters? Rise from off your knees
And face life fearlessly whate'er portend.
The wheels of Fate, despite your futile pleas,
Roll on, unheeding, to their destined end.
And still men cry and clamour to the dead,
Or pray for aid to gods and other men;
And still Fate crushes them and passes by.
The night comes swiftly; even now the red,
The blood-red sunset, like an open wen,
Creeps in its course across the darkening sky.
F. J. Webb