| Jessie B. Rittenhouse, ed. (1869–1948). The Little Book of Modern Verse. 1917. |
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| 86. The Fugitives |
| | | By Florence Wilkinson |
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| WE are they that go, that go, | |
| Plunging before the hidden blow. | |
| We run the byways of the earth, | |
| For we are fugitive from birth, | |
| Blindfolded, with wide hands abroad | 5 |
| That sow, that sow the sullen sod. | |
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| We cannot wait, we cannot stop | |
| For flushing field or quickened crop; | |
| The orange bow of dusky dawn | |
| Glimmers our smoking swath upon; | 10 |
| Blindfolded still we hurry on. | |
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| How we do know the ways we run | |
| That are blindfolded from the sun? | |
| We stagger swiftly to the call, | |
| Our wide hands feeling for the wall. | 15 |
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| Oh, ye who climb to some clear heaven, | |
| By grace of day and leisure given, | |
| Pity us, fugitive and driven— | |
| The lithe whip curling on our track, | |
| The headlong haste that looks not back! | 20 |
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