There is a spring that winds but does not flow,
A paradox: this nymph mechanical
Whose siren stirrings’ sensuous urges grow
To strident whirring, turbid and tyrannical.
There is no reason to allow
Such brazen demiurges to meddle
In destiny, no need to bow
Or shuffle off coils, mortal or metal.
Take arms against a sea of troubles?
One arm will do to overthrow
This tyranny, and sweep to rubble
Clock, table, lamp, and all the craft below.