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\title{Nameless}
\date{1889}
\author{Voltairine de Cleyre}
\subtitle{}






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  {\usekomafont{title}{\huge Nameless\par}}%
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  {\usekomafont{author}{Voltairine de Cleyre\par}}%
  
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\begin{verse}
I thought that I heard a sound — a voice! \\{}
~~~~Was there a voice that spoke? \\{}
Or did I fancy? I must have dreamed, and \\{}
~~~~have only now awoke. \\{}
Again? What is it? I cannot see, is there \\{}
~~~~anyone in the room? \\{}
Those words? "A minister come to pray \\{}
~~~~my soul through the gates of gloom!" \\{}
That's kind of you, but — what do you \\{}
~~~~say? Do I shrink from death? \\{}
Ah, no, I long for his terrible arms and the \\{}
~~~~frost of his icy breath. \\{}
There is rest for me on his stony breast, there \\{}
~~~~is peace in his cold, cold heart. \\{}
Ah, no, I fear not! My bosom's bare for the \\{}
~~~~sting of his shadowy dart. \\{}
Do you know what death means, sir to such, \\{}
~~~~as I, the wanton, the wretch of the street, \\{}
The trodden thing, that you godly ones crush \\{}
~~~~down as a worm 'neath your feet? \\{}
It means the end of a ceaseless pain that \\{}
~~~~none pity save those who bear. \\{}
Dear Death, draw near; lay your hands on \\{}
~~~~mine, draw nearer, my pillow share. \\{}
You say that I wander, that I forget the \\{}
~~~~stains on my guilty soul, \\{}
I must turn to Christ with a trusting faith, \\{}
~~~~and he will wash out the whole. \\{}
Why didn't your Christ save my soul before \\{}
~~~~from pollution's dark living grave? \\{}
When I was honest, and pure, and good, was \\{}
~~~~the time for your Christ to save! \\{}
I wasn't always an outcast, sir, to disgrace \\{}
~~~~my sex and name. \\{}
And it isn't from choice that these last five \\{}
~~~~years I've been leading a life of shame. \\{}
Why didn't your godly ones come to me ere \\{}
~~~~my virtue was putrid, dead; \\{}
If your Christ knew how hard I struggled, \\{}
~~~~why did he make so dear honest bread? \\{}
If I could only tell you how hard I tried — if \\{}
~~~~I only had time to speak— \\{}
But what does it matter? It's over now, \\{}
~~~~and I'm growing so weak, so weak! \\{}
What is it? I didn't "ask Christ," you say. \\{}
~~~~Nay, Sir, on my bended knees \\{}
In the street I've prayed to him to send me \\{}
~~~~work that I may not starve and freeze; \\{}
On my knees I prayed, in the other days, \\{}
~~~~that his merciful hand might save \\{}
The man I loved, and whose name I bore, \\{}
~~~~from the stain of a drunkard's grave; \\{}
And I asked your Christ when I saw him die, \\{}
~~~~only six poor feet to yield \\{}
Of his great wide Earth for a burial place \\{}
~~~~—and he gave me the Potter's Field! \\{}
I followed John's corpse to a pauper's grave \\{}
~~~~in the aisles of eternal night, \\{}
And the love of my life went down with the \\{}
~~~~clods that buried him from my sight; \\{}
I didn't think, as I stood there then, in the \\{}
~~~~driving wind and sleet, \\{}
Of my helpless self with my babe in arms, turned \\{}
~~~~homeless into the street! \\{}
I didn't think of the weary years, nor the \\{}
~~~~pain that was yet to come, \\{}
I could only think of those close shut lids, and \\{}
~~~~the dear lips sealed and dumb. \\{}
I didn't remember the life he'd led, nor his \\{}
~~~~last blood-curdling curse; \\{}
I only thought I'd once taken him for better \\{}
~~~~or — for worse; \\{}
That heart that I so often had pressed to \\{}
~~~~mine lay pulseless, and cold, and still, \\{}
And a weary voidness was left to me, that \\{}
~~~~nothing might ever fill. \\{}
Yes, he died of the tremens; you'll comfort \\{}
~~~~me by saying his soul is lost! \\{}
But where is the fiend who sold him rum, the \\{}
~~~~price that his ruin cost? \\{}
He's sitting to-day in a cushioned pew — a \\{}
~~~~good Christian, without flaw, \\{}
Along with the praters of Justice high, and \\{}
~~~~the deacons who make the law. \\{}
When he dies, you will say that the great \\{}
~~~~white gates flew open to let him in, \\{}
While my John is lying in mortal pain from \\{}
~~~~his great, unforgiven sin. \\{}
Ah, John — Dear John — I am faithful yet! All \\{}
~~~~the love I had to give \\{}
Is yours in death as in life dear John, and if \\{}
~~~~— somewhere — again we live, \\{}
You will know — and — forgive me. 'Twas for \\{}
~~~~our child! You will pity, you will not blame \\{}
That to save our child I sold myself, \\{}
~~~~and drank the dregs of shame! \\{}
I tried so hard to be honest, John, but \\{}
~~~~where was the use to try? \\{}
So many were willing to sell their toil, and \\{}
~~~~oh! So few to buy. \\{}
So few, so few, have felt, have seen God's love \\{}
~~~~in the blue skies, \\{}
Though the ranks of the starving poor are \\{}
~~~~filled with mournful, beseeching eyes. \\{}
They are filled with eyes that implore, and \\{}
~~~~haunt, and follow you through the years, \\{}
Strange, suffering eyes that are always dry \\{}
~~~~and heavy with unshed tears. \\{}
What is it? Could I get no work at all? \\{}
~~~~Sometimes; but, good Sir, I pray \\{}
Would you care to preach for seventeen hours, \\{}
~~~~at thirty-five cents a day? \\{}
It wasn't often I'd make that much, for \\{}
~~~~sewing without a fire, \\{}
In dead of winter is fearful work; and \\{}
~~~~your stiffened fingers tire, \\{}
And your head swims 'round, and your \\{}
~~~~shivering limbs grow numb with the cold, \\{}
And — well, it doesn't seem half so awful then \\{}
~~~~— this selling yourself for gold. \\{}
To me it didn't seem so bad as to you, \\{}
~~~~in the generous heat, \\{}
When I was forced in my mouth to hold my \\{}
~~~~little one's freezing feet. \\{}
The nobler self, like a delicate plant, dies fast \\{}
~~~~in a pitiless hour, \\{}
And the numbing cold of Starvation's tooth \\{}
~~~~has a terrible blasting power. \\{}
Aye, and many a winter night, \\{}
~~~~while you, in your well-warmed home, \\{}
Were teaching the love of Christ and God, I \\{}
~~~~was forced in the streets to roam; \\{}
Forced in the streets to roam all night, with \\{}
~~~~the babe on my shivering breast. \\{}
And a minister's wife has refused me food, or \\{}
~~~~even a spot to rest! \\{}
How long do you think your own mother, \\{}
~~~~Sir, would have led a virtuous life \\{}
If she had been left in the world like this? \\{}
~~~~How long would your trusted wife \\{}
Have remained like the snow ere it falls to \\{}
~~~~Earth, to mix in the muddy street \\{}
With the filth and the mire and the grime and \\{}
~~~~the ooze, ground in by the trampling feet? \\{}
I tell you, Sir, it's a terrible thing to judge of \\{}
~~~~a woman's sin \\{}
When a tenement's rent is a higher price than \\{}
~~~~her honest toil can win. \\{}
No! Don't talk of Christ any more to me! \\{}
~~~~When my little one's dying head \\{}
Was laid on my bosom, I asked him then, for \\{}
~~~~the last time, to send me bread. \\{}
I prayed to him, oh! So earnestly — and how \\{}
~~~~did his answer come? \\{}
The landlord knocked for his rent. And I, \\{}
~~~~like your Christ, was dumb! \\{}
I was dumb with despair, a dull, blank \\{}
~~~~despair, as I went out into the night, \\{}
And I didn't know, nor I didn't care, if I did \\{}
~~~~wrong or right. \\{}
I sold myself for a glittering price. 'Twas too \\{}
~~~~late! Little Charlie died; \\{}
And I'm only waiting for Death to come, that \\{}
~~~~we may sleep side by side. \\{}
Life hasn't mattered to me since then, all \\{}
~~~~that I loved was gone, \\{}
But your God of Vengeance, perhaps, decreed \\{}
~~~~that I, in my grief, live on. \\{}
It is over now — I am almost gone - it is \\{}
~~~~darker — I'm nearly blind! \\{}
Yes, I thank you for your intention, Sir, I'm \\{}
~~~~sure it was very kind. \\{}
No! Your prayers would be useless! I asked \\{}
~~~~for bread, and your Christ gave me a stone. \\{}
I can leave this world, as I've lived in it — in \\{}
~~~~shame, and in pain, alone. \\{}
It isn't the dying who need God's help. It's \\{}
~~~~the living who cry for aid! \\{}
Don't expect to have virtuous death, my \\{}
~~~~friend, when Virtue's so underpaid. \\{}
While Virtue's so underpaid in life, and honor \\{}
~~~~is sold so high, \\{}
Don't talk about Jesus' tender love, \\{}
~~~~don't endeavor to help vice die! \\{}
I am weak - so weak - and my voice - it fails. \\{}
~~~~A faintness steals over me \\{}
— Oh John! — Dear John! — and my little one, \\{}
~~~~I am coming. Light! I see!
\end{verse}









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The Anarchist Library (Mirror)



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Anti-Copyright



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Voltairine de Cleyre

Nameless



1889


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<\href{https://www.deadanarchists.org/nameless.html}{\texttt{https://www.deadanarchists.org/nameless.html}}>
   

       

       
         \emph{Justice} (Philadelphia), January 27, 1889
       

       

       

       

       

   



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\textbf{usa.anarchistlibraries.net}


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