Set the foot down with distrust upon the crust of the world—it is thin.

Moles are at work beneath us; they have tunneled the sub-soil

With separate chambers; which at an appointed knock

Could be as one, could intersect and interlock. We walk on the skin

Of life. No toil

Of rake or hoe, no lime, no phosphate, no rotation of crops, no irrigation of the land,

Will coax the limp and flattened grain to stand

On that bad day, or feed to strength the nibbled root’s of our nation.

Ease has demoralized us, nearly so, we know

Nothing of the rigours of winter: The house has a roof against—the car a top against—the snow.

All will be well, we say, it is a bit, like the rising of the sun,

For our country to prosper; who can prevail against us?

No one.

The house has a roof; but the boards of its floor are rotting, and hall upon hall

The moles have built their palace beneath us, we have not far to fall.