A careless conscienceless happy mob.
It is the Sound of their Voices that invests them with the terrifying Power, the long world-sweeping Force as of spirit and matter merged, the human radioactivity not evil and not good, stronger than all evil and all good.
Those children I look at must cease to be children, and must lose their Voices and grow into monks and thieves and singing women—must turn into persons—‘Romans, countrymen and lovers.’
But will come after those another chorus: the same chorus: the same Voices.
The brief yellow mellow minutes have passed and the last shout has been silenced and the hundreds of children, Rainbow Hair-Ribbons and Black Ribbed Legs, are again gathered into the McKinley School.
And my little door is shut again: that door opens but for those Voices.
The Voices: their echo flying everywhere flies here into my still room: and it stirs me, rouses me, speaks to me with the old joyous woe.
Music of the world.