For now, words drive us. In this tower of Babel, voices heave in torrents,

Like a soft drum roll or a bass recorder, the rising moan of a night time wind

There is quiet, the sun has gone down. We are at dusk, and now they come.

George Stevenson got us on the train, Henry Ford in the motor car, the Wright brothers flew an aeroplane

A glittering sun looks west in morning sky, a melancholy moon returns his haughty gaze.

Blue sky, green marsh, green sedge, a gentle sea breeze, blue water reflecting the clear sky.