O, Ax of Traffic, buzzing Saws of Trade,
Dost think for thee alone the Earth was made?
For thee, to garner clean her fields of corn,
With barren hills to greet the babe unborn;
For thee, to glutton in her sweet-stored vine!
And leave no grape on fainting Future’s vine?
JOHN TROTWOOD MOORE.
Fortunate is the man who has found his lifework, and—his Jonah.