The people yes The people will live on. The learning and blundering people will live on.    They will be tricked and sold and again sold And go back to the nourishing earth for rootholds,    The people so peculiar in renewal and comeback,    You can't laugh off their capacity to take it. The mammoth rests between his cyclonic dramas. The people so often sleepy, weary, enigmatic, is a vast huddle with many units saying:    "I earn my living.    I make enough to get by    and it takes all my time.    If I had more time    I could do more for myself    and maybe for others.    I could read and study    and talk things over    and find out about things.    It takes time.    I wish I had the time." The people is a tragic and comic two-face: hero and hoodlum: phantom and gorilla twisting to moan with a gargoyle mouth: "They buy me and sell me...it's a game...sometime I'll break loose..."    Once having marched Over the margins of animal necessity, Over the grim line of sheer subsistence    Then man came To the deeper rituals of his bones, To the lights lighter than any bones, To the time for thinking things over, To the dance, the song, the story, Or the hours given over to dreaming,    Once having so marched. Between the finite limitations of the five senses and the endless yearnings of man for the beyond the people hold to the humdrum bidding of work and food while reaching out when it comes their way for lights beyond the prison of the five senses, for keepsakes lasting beyond any hunger or death.    This reaching is alive. The panderers and liars have violated and smutted it.    Yet this reaching is alive yet    for lights and keepsakes.    The people know the salt of the sea    and the strength of the winds    lashing the corners of the earth.    The people take the earth    as a tomb of rest and a cradle of hope.    Who else speaks for the Family of Man?    They are in tune and step    with constellations of universal law.    The people is a polychrome,    a spectrum and a prism    held in a moving monolith,    a console organ of changing themes,    a clavilux of color poems    wherein the sea offers fog    and the fog moves off in rain    and the Labrador sunset shortens    to a nocturne of clear stars    serene over the shot spray    of northern lights.    The steel mill sky is alive.     The fire breaks white and zigzag     shot on a gun-metal gloaming.     Man is a long time coming.     Man will yet win.     Brother may yet line up with brother:   This old anvil laughs at many broken hammers.     There are men who can't be bought.     The fireborn are at home in fire.     The stars make no noise,     You can't hinder the wind from blowing.     Time is a great teacher.     Who can live without hope?   In the darkness with a great bundle of grief     the people march. In the night, and overhead a shovel of stars for keeps, the people march:     "Where to? what next?"