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!