LABOUR — CAPITAL — LAND.

In that rich archipelago of sea

With fiery hills, thick woods wherein the mias

Browses along the trees, and god-like men

Leave monuments of speech too large for us,

There are strange forest-trees. Far up, their roots

Spread from the central trunk, and settle down

Deep in the life-fed earth, seventy feet below.

In the past days here grew another tree,

On whose high fork the parasitic seed

Fell and sprang up, and, finding life and strength

In the disease, decrepitude and death

Of that it fed on, utterly consumed it,

And stands the monument of Nature's crime!

So Labour with his parasites, the two

Great swollen robbers, Land and Capital,

Stands to the gaze of men but as a heap

Of rotted dust whose only use must be

To rich the roots of the proud stem that killed it!