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.