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)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,

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