Then the dead one passed away in the air with cries: “You will pay for it yet! And he clenched his fist and threatened the world.” The poet’s love for nature, the human longing of the worker imprisoned in the city for the country, which he has known but which is now beyond his reach, is expressed in the nightingale’s challenge to the laborer: “Summer is here, summer is here! I shall not sing to you eternally, for finally my hour too will strike—a dark crow will occupy my branch, the holy song will cease. How long must I sing to you from the tree of the golden dream of freedom and love? Rise and let me not urge you any longer! The heaven will not remain eternally blue! Summer is here, summer is here! Now one can pass a merry time, for just like you who are fading at your machine, everything will in the end wither and be carried away.” The Nightingale illustrates, as Professor Wiener points out, the poet’s command over poetic form as well as poetic thought. Even in the English prose translation we can feel the repetition of notes, the intricate weaving of melody in the bird’s song. Another poem which is an example of the same power of combining matter and manner is that drama of the garment worker’s lift, The Sweatshop, which deserves to be quoted in full: THE SWEAT SHOP The machines in the shop roar so wildly that often I forget in the roar that I am; I am lost in the terrible tumult, my ego disappears, I am a machine. I work and work and work without end. I am busy and busy and busy at all time. For what and for when? I know not, I ask not! How should a machine ever come to think? There are no feelings, no thoughts, no reason; the bitter bloody work kills the noblest, the most beautiful and best, the richest, the deepest, the highest, which life possesses. The seconds, minutes and hours fly; the nights like the days pass as swiftly as sails; I drive the machine just as if I wished to catch them; I chase without avail, I chase without end. The clock in the workshop does not rest; it keeps on pointing and ticking and waking in succession. A man once told me the meaning of its pointing and waking—that there was a reason in it; as if through a dream I remember it all; the clock awakens life and sense in me, and something else—I forget what; ask me not, I know not, I know not, I am a machine!