What bid the upper spheres to roll
about our grandly tomb of space,
in wild misanthropic patrol
propelled by some unknown faceless grace,
the same who bids all landless work?
for wage sustaining slavery,
and fashion law that government dirk
to prolong their own sad tyranny,
all this we must endure without tears
upon our once bright aeolian hearts,
where anxieties play as on a lyre
whose notes are struck amid the dark.