As we come marching, marching, in the beauty of the day, A million darkened kitchens, a thousand mill-lofts gray Are touched with all the radiance that a sudden sun discloses, For the people hear us singing, "Bread and Roses, Bread and Roses."
As we come marching, marching, we battle, too, for men-- For they are women's children and we mother them again. Our lives shall not be sweated from birth until life closes-- Hearts starve as well as bodies: Give us Bread, but give us Roses!
As we come marching, marching, unnumbered women dead Go crying through our singing their ancient song of Bread; Small art and love and beauty their drudging spirits knew-- Yes, bread we fight for--but we fight for Roses, too.
James Oppenheim, 1915
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