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Poem by Lola Ridge


Fuel


What of the silence of the keys
And silvery hands? The iron sings
Though bows lie broken on the strings,
The fly-wheels turn eternally

Bring fuel - drive the fires high
Throw all this artist-lumber in
And foolish dreams of making things
(Ten million men are called to die.)

As for the common men apart,
Who sweat to keep their common breath,
And have no hour for books or art -
What dreams have these to hide from death!



Lola Ridge


Lola Ridge's other poems:
  1. Scandal
  2. Dispossed
  3. North Wind
  4. Broadway
  5. Manhattan


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