Hands, heart, not value made us, and of any
Desired perfection the projection solely,
Lives worked us slowly to delight the senses,
Of their fire shall you find us, of the many
Acts of direction not defection—wholly
Dead labor, lowlier with time’s offenses,
Assumed thing of labor powers extorted
So thwarted we are together impeded—
The labor speeded while our worth decreases—
Naturally surplus value increases
Being incident to the pace exhorted:
Unsorted, indrawn, but things that time ceded
To life exceeded—not change, the mind pieces
The expanse of labor in us when it ceases.
— from A