I have reached this place Save for one truth I hold to, shall still hold to: As long as I have breath: The man who sees not, Or cares not for the Truth that keeps the world From vast disintegration is a brute, And marked for a brute's death--that is his hell. 'Twas loyalty to this truth that made me lose My place as editor. For when they came And tried to make me pass an article To poison millions with, I said, "I won't, I won't by God. I'll quit before I do." And then they said, "You quit," and so I quit. FLORENCE And so you took to drink and came to me! And that's the same as if I came to you And used you as an editor. I am nothing But just a poor reporter in this house-- But now I quit. JACK Where are you going, Florence? FLORENCE I'm going to a village or a farm Where I'll get up at six instead of twelve, Where I'll wear calico instead of silk, And where there'll be no furnace in the house. And where the carpet which has kept me here And keeps you here as editor is not. I'm going to economize my life By freeing it of systems which grow rich By using me, and for the privilege Bestow these gaudy clothes and perfumed bed. I hate you now, because I hate my life. JACK Wait! Wait a minute. FLORENCE Dinah, call a cab! SIR GALAHAD I met Hosea Job on Randolph Street Who said to me: "I'm going for the train, I want you with me." And it happened then My mind was hard, as muscles of the back Grow hard resisting cold or shock or strain And need the osteopath to be made supple, To give the nerves and streams of life a chance. Hosea Job was just the osteopath To loose, relax my mood. And so I said "All right"--and went. Hosea was a man Whom nothing touched of danger, or of harm. His life was just a rare-bit dream, where some one Seems like to fall before a truck or train-- Instead he walks across them. Or you see Shadows of falling things, great buildings topple, Pianos skid like bulls from hellish corners And chase the oblivious fool who stands and smiles. The buildings slant and sway like monstrous searchlights, But never touch him. And the mad piano Comes up to him, puts down its angry head, Runs out a friendly tongue and licks his hand, And lows a symphony.