The machine threatens all we have gained
Only so long as it is imagined, rather than obedient.
It no longer flaunts magnificent gestures of exquisite hesitation
But resolutely works the mine, and polishes the gem more precisely.
Nowhere does it lag, that we might for a time escape it
And leave it behind in a quiet factory oiling itself, as is proper.
It has become our Life, - and best assumes this power
When with one resolve it orders, produces, demolishes.
But still our Existence enchants us; from a hundred sources
Being wells up. A play of pure energies, which
No one encounters who does not kneel and marvel.
Words even now go forth with tenderness into the inexpressible ...
And music, ever renewed, from the most tremulous of stones
Constructs in waste spaces her deified dwelling.
© Robert Temple 2010. Website designed by Jonathan Greet