Cursed brood in the simplitude where darkness rouses;
Praised, as well, upon the spark of its flimsy fuse--
Managed by the turf of electricity,
Needing to use it--d'you think it might falter or
Otherwise its riches disprove?
D'you think our kindling hands are worthless, or somehow engineered, rude,
Espoused in the gleaming to simply be monstrous
Well, do you?