A poem by Thomas William Hodgson Crosland

Upon the tinkling splintery battlements
Which swing and tumble south in ghostly white
Behemoth rushes blindly from the night,
Behemoth whom we have praised on instruments
Dulcet and shrill and impudent with vents:
Behemoth whose huge body was our delight
And miracle, wallows where there is no light,
Shattered and crumpled and torn with pitiful rents.

O towers of steel and masts that gored the moon,
On you we blazoned our pomp and lust and pelf,
And we have died like excellent proud kings
Who take death nobly if it come late or soon:
For our high souls are mirrors of Himself,
Though our great wonders are His littlest things.

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