These gears and cogs, this burnished-copper’s sheen
Too soon forgot with steel’s imposing gray.
Forgotten too are hands, for these machines
Do make the fickle body fade away.
What’s, progress, then? Shall hearts be made of wires
And joints be fashioned from these silver plates?
Shall love be merely a programmed desire
And war become an automated hate?
Gone are the days of soil ‘neath our nails
Or knowledge of where clothes are e’en sewn
As trains by steam alone traverse these rails
And worlds expand beyond our narrow homes.
Industrial, this brave new world appears
But progress’ joy does fashion other fears.
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