And the lands marooned--
Till Time should like a paralytic sit,
A mildewed hulk above the nations squatting?

FUEL

What of the silence of the keys
And silvery hands? The iron sings...
Though bows lie broken on the strings,
The fly-wheels turn eternally...

Bring fuel--drive the fires high...
Throw all this artist-lumber in
And foolish dreams of making things...
(Ten million men are called to die.)

As for the common men apart,
Who sweat to keep their common breath,
And have no hour for books or art--
What dreams have these to hide from death!

A TOAST

Not your martyrs anointed of heaven--
The ages are red where they trod--
But the Hunted--the world's bitter leaven--
Who smote at your imbecile God--

A being to pander and fawn to,
To propitiate, flatter and dread