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- Unless, governor, inspector, visitor,This map becomes their window and these windowsThat shut upon their lives like catacombs,Break O break open till they break the townAnd show the children to green fields, and make their worldRun azure on gold sands, and let their tongues Run naked into books the white and green leaves openHistory theirs whose language is the sun
- On sour cream walls, donations. Shakespeare’s head,Cloudless at dawn, civilized dome riding all cities.Belled, flowery, Tyrolese valley. Open-handed mapAwarding the world its world. And yet, for theseChildren, these windows, not this map, their world,Where all their future’s painted with a fog a narrow street sealed in with a lead skyFar far from rivers, capes, and stars of words
- Surely, Shakespeare is wicked, the map a bad example,With ships and sun and love tempting them to steal—For lives that slyly turn in their cramped holesFrom fog to endless night? On their slag heap, these childrenWear skins peeped through by bones and spectacles of steelWith mended glass, like bottle bits on stones.All of their time and space are foggy slum.So blot their maps with slums as big as doom.
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