on the picket line

the avenue is misty gray,

and here beside the guarded gate

we hold our golden blowing flags

and wait.

the people pass in friendly wise;

they smile their greetings where we stand

and turn aside to recognize

the just demand.

often the gates are swung aside:

the man whose power could free us now

looks from his car to read our plea—

and bow.

sometimes the little children laugh;

the careless folk toss careless words,

and scoff and turn away, and yet

the people pass the whole long day

those golden flags against the gray

and can’t forget.

beulah amidon.

the suffragist, march 3, 1917.