Carl HamblinThe press of the Spoon RiverClarionwas wrecked,And I was tarred and feathered,For publishing this on the day theAnarchists were hanged in Chicago:“I saw a beautiful woman with bandaged eyesStanding on the steps of a marble temple.Great multitudes passed in front of her,Lifting their faces to her imploringly.In her left hand she held a sword.She was brandishing the sword,Sometimes striking a child, again a laborer,Again a slinking woman, again a lunatic.In her right hand she held a scale;Into the scale pieces of gold were tossedBy those who dodged the strokes of the sword.A man in a black gown read from a manuscript:“She is no respecter of persons.”Then a youth wearing a red capLeaped to her side and snatched away the bandage.And lo, the lashes had been eaten awayFrom the oozy eye-lids;The eye-balls were seared with a milky mucus;The madness of a dying soulWas written on her face—But the multitude saw why she wore the bandage.”
The press of the Spoon RiverClarionwas wrecked,And I was tarred and feathered,For publishing this on the day theAnarchists were hanged in Chicago:“I saw a beautiful woman with bandaged eyesStanding on the steps of a marble temple.Great multitudes passed in front of her,Lifting their faces to her imploringly.In her left hand she held a sword.She was brandishing the sword,Sometimes striking a child, again a laborer,Again a slinking woman, again a lunatic.In her right hand she held a scale;Into the scale pieces of gold were tossedBy those who dodged the strokes of the sword.A man in a black gown read from a manuscript:“She is no respecter of persons.”Then a youth wearing a red capLeaped to her side and snatched away the bandage.And lo, the lashes had been eaten awayFrom the oozy eye-lids;The eye-balls were seared with a milky mucus;The madness of a dying soulWas written on her face—But the multitude saw why she wore the bandage.”