)And fledglings in the nest, J Waiting with open mouths, \ Fining the vacant air with cries. I A clang of bells. An ambulance. ! The thing is gone. tOh, where is God?
TRUTH: Make better gods.
POET:
I see my white-faced sisters of the foul tenements
Stooping over their needles, the devil's playthings,
Which flash faster than the wings of the dragon-fly,
Or the fangs of the quick-coiling serpent.
Their fingers are yellow, like those of the dead ;
The thin fingers of those who have died of hunger.
Without pause, not daring to lose a moment.
They snatch at the crust of their starvation while they labor.
They bend close above their work with dim eyes.
And the murmur of their hearts is continually:
"Lest we starve ! Lest we starve !"
I see my haggard sisters of the mind-madding factories.
Their eyes sunken and their mouths drawn down.
What anguish do they suffer?
Their sallow hands are like talons; thin and yellow like the foot of an eagle. l They stand forever where the clamorous looms catch up J the souls of the workers and weave them into cloth, ! The souls of submissive women, woven into cloth for \ the masters,
And they left standing, empty husks.
Oh, the din of the mind-madding looms.
The devil-dance of the shuttles.
They weave up Youth, Freshness, Joy.
They weave up the morning-thread of children's lives ;
The roses of maidens' cheeks,
35
