Slave of the wheel of labor, what to him Are Plato and the swing of Pleiades? How answer his brute question in that hour When whirlwinds of rebellion shake the world? Whose breath blew out the light within this brain? This entry was posted in Uncategorized.
But Wordsworth saw even then, that greed, selfishness and arrogance was changing his ideal of human kind into something else.
Who made him dead to rapture and despair, A thing that grieves not and that never hopes, Stolid and stunned, a brother to the ox? It is amazing to me that a poet who lived before the industrial revolution would have had such an opinion on human kind.
Is this the Thing the Lord God made and gave To have dominion over sea and land; To trace the stars and search the heavens for power; To feel the passion of Eternity?
O masters, lords and rulers in all lands, is this the handiwork you give to God, This monstrous thing distorted and soul-quenched? Whose was the hand that slanted back this brow?
What the long reaches of the peaks of song, The rift of dawn, the reddening of the rose? Is this the Dream He dreamed who shaped the suns And marked their ways upon the ancient deep?