Winner of Three Worlds

Man hath made machines,
Toiled with head and arm,
Bowed unto his will

Wood and stone and steel,
Bored the bowelled earth,
Wrenched out, living, warm
Coal and ore and rock,
Made them all to feel,
Joined with subtle skill;
Hammering here and there
Wrought he patiently,
Now with gentle care,
Now with might and main,
Now with praise and prayer.
Though man win his fight,
Though he prove his sleight-
Whatsoe'er his deed,

Doth the poet heed?
Vainly, years on end,
Sweating to the soul
Artisans might rend
Earth from pole to pole.-
Voyagers put out,

Sail an unknown stead-
Their work, slim or stout,
Bards have trumpeted;
But when engines whirred,
Baffling space and time,

Who hath voiced their word?
Caught their throbbing rime?

Old our world and tired,
Slow its pulses beat,
Heavy laden, worn,

Burdened with its sins.
Books without an end
Staring eyeballs meet-
Weariness of flesh,
Waggings of weak chins
Telling this or that.

Who hath known or cared?
Then, while days are dull,
Feeling, sense impaired,
Suddenly ourselves

To the World stand bared ·
Our poor, trivial selves
Where the Devil delves.
And not we alone:

Races all unknown.
Bird and beast and bee,
Men of saddened skin,
Steel and stone and tree
Prove our brother-kin;
These have found their voice,
Joined with ours their lot -

Weep they or rejoice,

Sing they, sing they not.

Three new worlds have stirred,

Hailed us fellow men,

Born of Kipling's word,

Quick from Kipling's pen.

WALLACE RICE.