I was up on a mountain looking down at the stars—
The lights of the trucks and the buses and cars,
And far to my right a galactic sight—
The glittering glow of a town.

A shooting universe spread out at my feet,
The catching target was a halo complete,
And gazing, I sang, and the words echoed ’round,
“Here’s a heaven come pure from the dust of the ground.

“And the angels of dust have their chrome-plated wings,
And their thought-governed hands are the masters of things,
And the glory each bears be the shine of his brow,
As in reason he swears, ‘I can; I know how’.”

All the leisure they make from their toiling each day,
All the joys of invention that steer a new way,
All the triumphing laughter in challenges flung—
These are the fountainheads keeping man young.

With ideas like these I stood there and knew
The creators of heaven would always come through.
Though the mindless forsake it, abandoning worth,
The selfish ones stir up the dust of the earth.

Then the stars shot paler as I walked on a bit,
And the town dwindled down and was barely lit,
And over the rim of the work-floor of men
The beams of the gold one came dancing again.