Afterthoughts on the use of machines...

from The Song of Steel by Charles Buxton Going

Look! We have slain the forests, thou and I--
Soiled the bright streams and murked the very sky;
Crushed the glad hills and shocked the quiet stars
With roaring factories and clanging cars!

Thou builder of machines, who dost not see!
That which thou mad'st to drive, is driving thee--
Ravening, tireless, pitiless its strain
For thy last ounce of work from hand and brain.

Are thy sons princes? Hard-wrung serfs! They give
Toil's utmost dregs for the bare chance to live;
They dig and delve and strive with sweat-cursed brow
In forge and shop. Master? Nay! Thrall art thou!