These grand and fatal movements toward death: the grandeur

of the mass

Makes pity a fool, the tearing pity

For the atoms of the mass, the persons, the victims, makes it

seem monstrous

To admire the tragic beauty they build.

It is beautiful as a river flowing or a slowly gathering

Glacier on a high mountain rock-face,

Bound to plow down a forest, or as frost in November,

The gold and flaming death-dance for leaves,

Or a girl in the night of her spent maidenhood, bleeding and

kissing.

I would burn my right hand in a slow fire

To change the future ... I should do foolishly. The beauty

of modern

Man is not in the persons but in the

Disastrous rhythm, the heavy and mobile masses, the dance of the

Dream-led masses down the dark mountain.