| As we go marching, marching, in the beauty of the day
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| A million darkened kitchens, a thousand mill lofts gray
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| Are touched with all the radiance that a sudden sun discloses
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| For the people hear us singing, bread and roses, bread and roses
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| As we come marching, marching, we battle too, for men
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| For they are women’s children and we mother them again
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| Our days shall not be sweated from birth until life closes
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| Hearts starve as well as bodies, give us bread, but give us roses
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| As we come marching, marching, un-numbered women dead
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| Go crying through our singing their ancient call for bread
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| Small art and love and beauty their trudging spirits knew
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| Yes, it is bread we. |
| fight for, but we fight for roses, too
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| As we go marching, marching, we bring the greater days
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| The rising of the women means the rising of the race
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| No more the drudge and idler, ten that toil where one reposes
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| But a sharing of life’s glories, bread and roses, bread and roses |