The lights of the city gleam and glow In the misty purple dusk, Bursting out of the grimy globes Like tropical fruits from the husk: A myriad sparkling orbs of light, - Violet, golden, scarlet, white, - Blazing up at the stars of night.
But the light was not in the globes; Man's hand has led it there, His power, his thought, the wonder wrought, Captured and chained the flare; And the light obeys his will, The mind of man and his skill.
But back of the light is the power house, Where the great wheels tireless turn, Where the pulleys lift and the gearings shift, And the roaring fires burn. And back of the power the mine, Where the toiling slaves of the Lamp Burrow like moles in the black pit-holes In the dust and the deadly damp.
And back of the mine are the buried trees Where the strong winds laid them low, Charred by the fires of centuries, Smoldering deep and slow; The days of the Lord are a thousand years, The eves and the morns of the circling spheres, And a thousand thousand lingering days Passed over the trees and the hidden blaze.
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