A world of other minds obscured,
By thick conveyor belts, industrial queues,
By automated baits and hidden cages,
I've almost had it with the thing! I'm through.
But here I find a dusty tact,
The molten microphones of old,
These here are real thoughts,
These here are real minds in bold.

The bastion of these fleeting notes,
Man's autograph crusted in the mold,
Claws up in concrete limbs and cobbled scales,
To kiss the clouds and blue sky's cold,
To praise the trees for all their heights,
More fully praise the blacksmith old,
Of valleys low and churning lakes,
Of fluttered trees and high hills bold.