Back at my house, where the village ends
And the furrowed land begins,
God is a music of cello-tones
And satiny violins.

But here, in this maelstrom of opposites,
This passion of splendors and slimes,
The factory chimneys are organ-pipes
And the engine-bells are chimes.

And which is dearer I cannot tell—
My blossomy symphony,
Or the thundering organ that breaks my heart
And sunders my soul from me.