What of the silence of the keys <br />And silvery hands? The iron sings… <br />Though bows lie broken on the strings, <br />The fly-wheels turn eternally… <br /> <br />Bring fuel - drive the fires high… <br />Throw all this artist-lumber in <br />And foolish dreams of making things… <br />(Ten million men are called to die.) <br /> <br />As for the common men apart, <br />Who sweat to keep their common breath, <br />And have no hour for books or art - <br />What dreams have these to hide from death!<br /><br />Lola Ridge<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/fuel-4/
