Out of the wasteland, native, Wanderers we
Press the slopes, the uncompleted palisades
Of hills; the incorruptible, the undefendable
Line of hills:
Unit first of instinct's barricades.
On gra** we ponder the incident of gra**;
On ore the sparkle of the watchbands on our wrists,
On hands the tough hard way of fists
Certain of bones wellshaped to stand the smash
Of the piston armthrust in the coveted face
And conservative of our neighbour.
The lash
Of our feet is sturdily bent towards this place,
And this, and this; the demolition of the lily;
The unbalancing of hearthstones; the upheaval
Of farms' premeditative peace,
Footnotes of cities in ways mediaeval.
And more than electrical, more than ways modern,
We seek in genesis through instinct's season,
More ways than footways, or those of the mind:
We seek illegal entries into reason
Of what we are and why, the planet's reach,
The vanities of settlement, the soul,
And all the methods of unhuman:
We seek in space the business of the mole.