Sunday, July 20, 2014

The Printing Press

I am the printing press, born of the mother earth.
 My heart is of steel, my limbs are of iron, and my fingers are of brass.
 I sing the songs of the world, the oratorios of history, the symphonies of all time.
 I am the voice of today, the herald of tomorrow. I weave into the warp of the past the woof of the future. I tell the stories of peace and war alike.
 I make the human heart beat with passion or tenderness. I stir the pulse of nations, and make brave men do braver deeds, and soldiers die.
I inspire the midnight toiler, weary at his doom, to lift his head again and gaze with fearlessness into the vast beyond, seeking the consolation of a hope eternal.
When I speak, a myriad people listen to my voice. The Saxon, the Latin, the Celt, the Hun, the Slav, the Hindu, all comprehend me.
I am the tireless clarion of the news. I cry your joys and sorrows every hour. I fill the dullard's mind with thoughts uplifting.
 I am light, knowledge, power. I epitomize the conquests of mind over matter. I am the record of all things mankind has achieved.
 My offspring comes to you in the candle's glow, amid the dim lamps of poverty, the splendor of riches; at sunrise, at high noon and in the waning evening.
 I am the laughter and tears of the world, and I shall never die until all things return to their immutable dust.
 I am the printing press.

Robert H. Davis

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