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railroad man, born in a weatherboarded shack at Terre Haute.
    He was one of ten children.
    His father had come to America in a sailingship in ’49,
    an Alsatian from Colmar; not much of a moneymaker, fond of music and reading,
    he gave his children a chance to finish public school and that was about all he could do.
    At fifteen Gene Debs was already working as a machinist on the Indianapolis and Terre Haute Railway.
    He worked as locomotive fireman,
    clerked in a store
    joined the local of the Brotherhood of Locomotive Firemen, was elected secretary, traveled all over the country as organizer.
    He was a tall shamblefooted man, had a sort of gusty rhetoric that set on fire the railroad workers in their pineboarded halls
    made them want the world he wanted,
    a world brothers might own
    where everybody would split even:
    I am not a labor leader. I don’t want you to follow me or anyone else. If you are looking for a Moses to lead you out of the capitalist wilderness you will stay right where you are. I would not lead you into this promised land if I could, because if I could lead you in, someone else would lead you out.
    That was how he talked to freighthandlers and gandywalkers, to firemen and switchmen and engineers, telling them it wasn’t enough to organize the railroadmen, that all workers must be organized, that all workers must be organized in the workers’ cooperative commonwealth.
    Locomotive fireman on many a long night’s run,
    under the smoke a fire burned him up, burned in gusty words that beat in pineboarded halls; he wanted his brothers to be free men.
    That was what he saw in the crowd that met him at the Old Wells Street Depot when he came out of jail after the Pullman strike,
    those were the men that chalked up nine hundred thousand votes for him in nineteen twelve and scared the frockcoats and the tophats and diamonded hostesses at Saratoga Springs, Bar Harbor, Lake Geneva with the bogy of a socialist president.
     
    But where were Gene Debs’ brothers in nineteen eighteen when Woodrow Wilson had him locked up in Atlanta for speaking against war,
    where were the big men fond of whisky and fond of each other, gentle rambling tellers of stories over bars in small towns in the Middle West,
    quiet men who wanted a house with a porch to putter around and a fat wife to cook for them, a few drinks and cigars, a garden to dig in, cronies to chew the rag with
    and wanted to work for it
    and others to work for it;
    where were the locomotive firemen and engineers when they hustled him off to Atlanta Penitentiary?
     
    And they brought him back to die in Terre Haute
    to sit on his porch in a rocker with a cigar in his mouth,
    beside him American Beauty roses his wife fixed in a bowl;
    and the people of Terre Haute and the people in Indiana and the people of the Middle West were fond of him and afraid of him and thought of him as an old kindly uncle who loved them, and wanted to be with him and to have him give them candy,
    but they were afraid of him as if he had contracted a social disease, syphilis or leprosy, and thought it was too bad,
    but on account of the flag
    and prosperity
    and making the world safe for democracy,
    they were afraid to be with him,
    or to think much about him for fear they might believe him;
    for he said:
    While there is a lower class I am of it, while there is a criminal class I am of it, while there is a soul in prison I am not free.

The Camera Eye (4)
    riding backwards through the rain in the rumbly cab looking at their two faces in the jiggly light of the four-wheeled cab and Her big trunks thumping on the roof and He reciting
Othello
in his lawyer’s voice
     
Her father loved me, oft invited me
Still questioned me the story of my life
From year to year, the battles, sieges, fortunes
That I have past.
I ran it through, even from my boyish days
,
To th’ very moment that he bade me tell it
Wherein I spoke of the most disastrous chances
Of moving accidents by flood and field
Of