He sang; above the burden and the heat,
Above all seasons with their fitful grace;
Above the chance and change that led his feet
To this last ambush of the Market-place. 
‘Enough for him,’ they said—­and still they say—­
’A crust, with air to breathe, and sun to shine;
He asks no more!’—­Before they took away
The corn, the oil, the wine.

He sang.  No more he sings now, anywhere. 
Light was enough, before he was undone. 
They knew it well, who took away the air,
—­Who took away the sun;
Who took, to serve their soul-devouring greed,
Himself, his breath, his bread—­the goad of toil;—­
Who have and hold, before the eyes of Need,
The corn, the wine,—­the oil!

Truly, one thing is sweet
Of things beneath the Sun;
This, that a man should earn his bread and eat,
Rejoicing in his work which he hath done.
What shall be sung or said
Of desolate deceit,
When others take his bread;
His and his children’s bread?—­
And the laborer hath none.
This, for his portion now, of all that he hath done.
He earns; and others eat.
He starves;—­they sit at meat
Who have taken away the Sun.

II

Seek him now, that singing Man. 
Look for him,
Look for him
In the mills,
In the mines;
Where the very daylight pines,—­
He, who once did walk the hills! 
You shall find him, if you scan
Shapes all unbefitting Man,
Bodies warped, and faces dim. 
In the mines; in the mills
Where the ceaseless thunder fills
Spaces of the human brain
Till all thought is turned to pain. 
Where the skirl of wheel on wheel,
Grinding him who is their tool,
Makes the shattered senses reel
To the numbness of the fool. 
Perisht thought, and halting tongue—­
(Once it spoke;—­once it sung!)
Live to hunger, dead to song. 
Only heart-beats loud with wrong
Hammer on,—­How long?
... How long?—­How long?

    Search for him;
    Search for him;
    Where the crazy atoms swim
    Up the fiery furnace-blast. 
    You shall find him, at the last,—­
    He whose forehead braved the sun,—­
    Wreckt and tortured and undone. 
    Where no breath across the heat
    Whispers him that life was sweet;
    But the sparkles mock and flare,
    Scattering up the crooked air. 
    (Blackened with that bitter mirk,—­
    Would God know His handiwork?)

Thought is not for such as he; Naught but strength, and misery; Since, for just the bite and sup, Life must needs be swallowed up.  Only, reeling up the sky, Hurtling flames that hurry by, Gasp and flare, with Why—­Why, ... Why?...

    Why the human mind of him