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!
