Somewhere is closed a circuit, And miles and miles away A filament is lighted; A wheel goes into play; A thought is carried quickly, In clearest tones expressed, Because an impulse flashes North, South, or East, or West. And how? Beneath the pavement, Away from human gaze, Across the humid darkness Wires run in countless ways. In cables, ever-reaching Through subterranean curves, They carry thought and action. They are the city’s nerves. [Illustration’s upper half depicts an above-ground daytime view of a cityscape. The lower half depicts a below-ground view cast in darkness except for two unclothed men; bolts of electricity extend from their hands. The art is signed “Pancoast.”] Doing It Well (1926) I SAW him do his act before a large and motley throng That sought relief and laughter in the house of dreams and song. Just who he was or whence he came of course I cannot tell. He only played a banjo, but he played the banjo well. I saw her washing dishes in a simple little cot. Her life was spent in toiling there upon the selfsame spot. Her face was furrowed, and each line a story had to tell. She only kept a household, but she kept the household well. I saw him fire an engine in a vast and grimy room, Though it was hard to see him in the still and dusty gloom. He watched each motion keenly as the pistons rose and fell. He only fired an engine, but he fired the engine well. I saw him digging ditches with the mud upon his hands, And with that steady motion that a digger understands. He claimed no fame nor fortune; only brawn he had to sell. He was but digging ditches, but he dug the ditches well. It matters rather little what task one may choose to do, So long as it is honest and his purposes are true. The years will ring his story far upon their golden bell, If he will only do the thing he may be doing well. Enslaved Lightning (1926) A nature worshipper, long dead, Came back in ghostly form, To visit where, in ages sped, He bowed before the storm. The city streets with radiance burned Through every darkened hour, And every busy wheel was turned By harnessed lightning power. “Ah me,” he said, “The times do change. This is a different ball. So altered everything, so strange, I’m not at home at all. These moderns have audacious wills; The gods we served aright, They’ve put to work to turn their mills And light their streets at night.” [Illustration of a window view of a city’s downtown on a stormy night. A generator is in the foreground next to the window. The window frames a skyscraper, other buildings, and street lights; they are all filled with light. A bolt of lightning extends from the sky to the generator. The art piece is signed “A Sturges” and below it the caption reads, “Decoration by A Sturges.”] Flowers Are Thoughts of God (1926)