Gather up In the arms of your love—Those who expect No love from above.

Let the rain sing you a lullaby.

It were depression, too. They cut my wages down once at the foundry. They cut my wages down again. Then they cut my wages out, also the job.

My soul has grown deep like the rivers.

Gather out of star-dust, Earth-dust, Cloud-dust, Storm-dust, And splinters of hail, One handful of dream-dust, Not for sale.

It's such a Bore Being always Poor.

Let America be America again. Let it be the dream it used to be.