The room was narrow and cold and grim;

He reigned supreme, a king of dirt;

Beneath a slouched hat's shadowed brim,

He viewed the kingdom about him girt:

But thoughts he held of fairer mold

Than filth and stench so manifold.

Vanished the press of misery,

The stamp of vice and poverty's face,

The scenes he was so used to see,

The things so low, so vile, so base:

For dreaming, did he a long behold,

Where truth was worshipped as of old.

A land of honesty and thrift,

Where labor had its due reward;

Where each applied his special gift;

Nor turned from plowshare unto sword

To rob his neighbor of his gold,

But worked him weal instead of wold.

He saw the soil enriched by men,

Who gloried in such honest life,

Ranking with those of greater ken

Whose pleasures were in mental strife;

But who, as comrades true and bold,

Were in man's brotherhood enrolled.

He heard the hum of joy arise

From merry hearts and housefires bright;

A joy, that climbing, scaled the skies,

And cried "Rejoice! There is no night!"

'Twas but a melody uprolled

Of souls secure within the fold.

Truth and honor were upraised,

And purity of thought and deed.

The multitudes, adoring, gazed,

And in their hearts received the seed;

And righteousness, with firmest hold,

Sweet truths and many to them told.

The vision fair, before him shone;

His heart in ecstasies was rapt;

He awoke--he was no more alone,

For some one had quite loudly tapped:

The door was op'ed and in there strolled

A woman of demeanor cold.

"Your rent is due," this female said.

" 'Tis due these many, many days:

Your lazy body I have fed—

Say! How much can you raise?

Nay, not in looks so fierce and bold,

But in bright silver or hard gold."

The socialist, in accents mild,

Told her a lie upon the spot,

And her soft soul with ease beguiled

Of treasure wondrous he had got:

His aunt had died; the bells had tolled;

His was the money; hers the mould.

Then hied him to a laboring man --

Forgotten was his vision pure—

Whose hand was rough and face was wan,

And did a greater lie conjure.

The man from his scant pittance doled

The price for which the lie was sold.

The visions are in pleasure spent,

Regardless of his dream so bright,

The money which his friend had lent;

Beholding 'mid a magic light

The fond Utopia unrolled,

Of which the seers so often told,

Vanished all sin and foul desire;

Forgotten were deeds low and base;

Nor thinking of their vengeful ire,

He walked amid another race

Of men who ne'er their friends cajoled,

But truth and virtue did uphold.

'Tis thus with all poor mortals here,

Whose dual natures struggles wage;

Who for misfortune drop a tear,

Then in the war of life engage,

And with their passions uncontrolled,

Rage on in wild pursuit of gold.

Email Dan Wichlan
Copyright © 2005 by Dan Wichlan
This poem was published with the written permission of the Jack London estate.
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