They sang to us, those holy daylight ghosts;
and when their lips spake chapped and arid tongues
our pity-tears would have sufficed as balm;
but neither sob nor weary wetted eye
could 'mongst our lot those kindly wraiths descry.
They played for us, those nightly minstrels bright;
and when their harps were stilled for want of limbs
our sadness might have broken strings replaced;
but we stirred not, though echoes murdered sound
no mourning cry could from our throats be found.
They spoke to us, those keen-souled teachers wise;
and when their speech-filled words were stricken mute
our tenderness would altered tones have fixed;
but rough and loud we skipped our hateful way
and gave no thought to death or slow decay.
They cared for us, those happy healers apt;
and when their art was weakened by the times
our actions could have misplaced skill restored;
but we were proud, and idly sat on by
while they toiled on, and thus would humbly die.
Now as the creeping roots of stone and steel
do strangling smother life's last silent lord
We look with terror on what we have wrought,
our nightmare-screams by soulless engines mocked.
But while we may, we need but outward look
and give them back, what once we cruelly took
