I, and you, will make a mark without chisel or nail
Where now, I cannot say, but that I shall
Long laboring, to hold no grasp of end or fail
Not like those men, wretched, miserable
Who, upon that door at which no one ever dared refuse to bow
At cracks and crevices in vain scratch and pull
Like men who fence across the salle
Each of them to curse and spit and fall
And in the mud to screech and hiss and howl
Let none to question have the gall
We will set an inky mark upon the page
That I will die for you, or not at all