Реферат: Additional Poems By Joseph Freeman Essay Research

Here the home of Tampa’s proletariat winds its lank

Streets under balconies. Labor yokes all races; voices

And awnings shout Martinez, Cohen, Carducci! But O

Beloved flaming faces of Latin America, passionate

And stern, whose eyes burn with remembrance

Of a hundred battles with the world wide foe.

Going home, gentlemen, we find no architecture;

Home is an old broken wooden box patched

With tin or paper, naked within, maybe a hard cot;

Maybe, O petit-bourgeois luxury, even two; maybe

A decrepit icebox, a table limping on three legs;

Shacks whose faces grow black with worry.

Where will the rent–two bucks a week—come from?

The workers, having forgotten under the chronic

Fake smile of the Blue Eagle the feel of labor,

Do not recall the names of conquistadors

Who first touched Tampa’s shores; let the Chamber

Trumpet to a posterity of tourists the memory

Of Pamfilo de Narvaez, Hernando de Soto

The immense teeth and spectacles of Teddy.

We know only the third republic, the Roosevelt

Who flashes trecherous promises through a cataleptic gain.

We remember, gentlemen, the great strike of Thirty-One

When we marched to the factory of Sanchez y Haya

And on the water tank high above Ybor City

Nailed the red flag with hammer and sickle.

We remember, too, the terror, the cops who wrecked

The face of our leader Hy Gordon, cracked their pistols

Through his wrist-bone broke our Union.