The Ninety and Nine
There are ninety and nine that work and die,
In hunger and want and cold,
That one may revel in luxury,
And be lapped in the silken fold.
And ninety and nine in their hovels bare,
And one in a palace of riches rare.
From the sweat of their brow the desert blooms
And the forest before them falls;
Their labor has builded able homes,
And cities with lofty halls;
And the one owns cities and houses and lands
And the ninety and nine have empty hands.
But the night so dreary and dark and long,
At last shall the morning bring;
And over the land the victor's song
Of the ninety and nine shall ring,
And echo afar, from zone to zone,
"Rejoice! for Labor shall have its own."
DayPoems Poem No. 2581
<a href="http://www.daypoems.net/poems/2581.html">The Ninety and Nine by Rose Elizabeth Smith</a>
The DayPoems Poetry Collection, www.daypoems.net
Timothy Bovee, editor