BRAVE NEW WORLD
WHAT cavalcade of horses, bright as fire, Inspired by lovers, shook their bridled passion From smoothly-braided manes into the air, Lit conflagration on all upturned faces (A thousand smiling maidens tossing curls Of rapturous defiance), took their riders Into the streeted citadel of death!
From what Arabian sands, Mongolian plains Did the eruption pour? Europe is dead, Here is no life, only mechanic puppets, Like poppet-valves fixed to inert machines, Bob up and down, go in and out, their action The million-fold explosions of a spirit Dug from the earth tramped by those desert horsemen.
This shadowy force, life's long-forgotten mirage Clatters no payements, darkens no parents' doors. No such migrating horde can come again. From West to East the same machinery whirring Spreads desolation, defeats the despairing sparrows— Sad manufacture of world-wide depression, Souls empty everywhere in streets shop-laden.
Joy like a mystery completely vanished, All primal gaiety flat-ironed by reason.
Open the churches, shout to the vacant pulpits! Only the sunlight empties illumination On empty hearts. The mind will crack in terror Since there's no joy. Then will the children argue As soon as born, and vote death to their parents.
W. J. TURNER.
Postage on this issue: Inland, lid.; Overseas, Id.
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