You look in vain for a sign,
For a light in their eyes. No!
Stolid they sit, lulled
By the roar of the train in the tube,
Content with the electric light,
Assured, comfortable, warm.
Despair? . . . .
For a moment, yes:
This is the mass, inert,
Unalarmed, undisturbed;
And we, the spirit that moves,
We leaven the mass,
And it changes;
We sweeten the mass,
Or the world
Would stink in the ether.
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