PAPERSPAST

The Thinker

BY JAMES GPPENHEIM7 Over all lands a whisper, Under all seas a word, And he who has made the world what it is— Bowed Labour —he has heard. Thinks he: I come of a race of brutes, Tillers and killers and such; Whose life was a feeding, a toiling, and breeding-, And their joy was none too much. Thinks he: They toiled for their few hard masters Of castle and church and court; Many a million, many a million, Ached for an idler's sport. Thinks he: Our masters have given us light, / Better thjeir rule to obey; Machines need* brains to get good gains, And the brutes must pass away. Thinks he: The heavens are touched with wings, And land is whispering land; My brothers are reading as well as feeding, There's print in the calloused hand. Thinks he: We've paid in ages oi sweat —- Must we pay again and again? What if black ink shall set us to think, And thinking shall make us men? "Over all lands a whisper, Under all seas a word, And he who has made the world what it is—- :; Bowed Labour —he has heard.

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