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!