On my way to your theatres, said the dubious Old Mandarin,
I see To-morrow's papers already on sale
At eight o'clock To-night.
So does your strange mad city
Leap hotly towards the Future,
Tossing aside each Day before it is finished,
Hungrily, fatuously, craving the next.
Is it possible that the Editor
Is dissatisfied with each and every of his irreplaceable To-days
That he hurries To-morrow so close upon its heels?
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