So Babbles the Tower. From on high, I cast a lazy glance across the flooded street, a river of people and automobiles. I am safe here, within my temple sanctuary, catching such brief delight as floats by my gaze. The greater part of my hours are not so pleasant but for the displeasure I neglect by such detachment. Cool is the breeze that marks my window pain, and spins about my head the sounds of distant merriment. Dark is the night that rests above these blazing streets, set afire by so much drunken `bliss'. I abstain, I say, and to their cheer I mock "be well to guard your destiny that it not bear ill fruit." "For in that mirth, you drink a life's portent, and pass these days is swollen ignorance of your merry doom." Up they look, from under broad hats, bearing ivory teeth, "What say you, who dangles so much words from dispassioned `heights'?" Queer they laugh, "While we dance and sing, you simply shout of all we're missing, but what about?" "There you sit, alone and cold, where the little pleasure you enjoy, comes by our passing revery." "Ha!" They cry, "Why should we envy the solace and melancholy of a misfit Booeymonger?" (or "boorish monger") Still I proclaim, Yet I maintain, that life squandered by such fortune is war against our name, As people of a place, a nation not by blood but by one thought univocal that there be no king, but all and one a citizen. Finale: But by the self-deceitful irony, of alcohol and gold, each plebe proclaims his blood royale, while novel vintage, for a soul, he flaunts his robes imperial. And she to tease his favoured eye entreats him with a flirting tale, to grasp in her embrace, a taste of bitter-sweet forgetfulness. So on they dance, these children there beneath my window pain, O that he might sober, and she might wake, to know the dear humanity they obliterate in every drink.