His Own Labor by Charlotte Perkins Gilman — Read

Let every man be given what he earns! / We cry, and call it justice. Let him have / The product of his labor-and no more! / Well, then, let us begin with life's first needs, / And give him of the earth what he can make; / As much of air and light as he can make, / As much of ocean, and sweet wind and rain, / And flowers, and grass, and fruit, as he can make. / But no, we answer this is mockery: / No man makes these things. But of human wealth / Let every man be given what he makes, / The product of his labor, and no more. / Ah, well! So to the farmer let us give / Corn, and still corn, and only corn at last. / So to the grazier, meat; the fisher, fish; / Cloth to the weaver; to the mason, walls; / And let the writer sit and read his books- / The product of his labor-and naught else! / But no, we answer! Still you laugh at us. / We mean not his own labor in that sense, / But his share in the work of other men. / As much of what they make as he can buy / In fair exchange for labor of his own. / So let it be. As much of life's rich fruit- / The product of the labor of the world- / As he can equal with his own two hands, / His own supply of energy and skill! / As much of Shakespeare, Homer, Socrates, / As much of Wagner, Beethoven, and Bach, / As much of Franklin, Morse, and Edison, / As much of Watt, and Stephenson and Bell, / Of Euclid, Aristotle, Angelo, / Columbus, Raleigh, and George Washington, / Of all the learning of our patient years, / Of all the peace and smoothness we have won, / Of all the heaped up sciences and arts, / And luxuries that man has ever made,- / He is to have what his own toil can match! / Or, passing even this, giving no thought / To this our heritage, our vast bequest, / Condemn him to no more of human help / From living men than he can give to them! / Toil of the soldiers on the western plains, / Toil of the hardened sailors on the sea, / Toil of the sweating ploughman in the field, / The engine-driver, digger in the mine, / And weary weaver in the roaring mill. / Of all the hands and brains and hearts that toil / To fill the world with riches day by day, / Shall he have naught of this but what one man / Can give return for from his own supply? / Brother-There is no payment in the world! / We work and pour our labor at the feet / Of those who are around us and to come. / We live and take our living at the hands / Of those who are around us and have been. / No one is paid. No person can have more / Than he can hold. And none can do beyond / The power that's in him. To each child that's born / Belongs as much of all our human good / As he can take and use to make him strong. / And from each man, debtor to all the world, / Is due the fullest fruit of all his powers, / His whole life's labor, proudly rendered up, / Not as return-can moments pay an age? / But as the simple duty of a man. / Can he do less-receiving everything?