..
Not yet hast Thou spoken
The blooded, implacable Word...
But I hear in the Iron singing--
In the triumphant roaring of the steam and pistons pounding--
Thy barbaric exhortation...
And the blood leaps in my arteries, unreproved,
Answering Thy call...
All my spirit is inundated with the tumultuous passion of Thy Voice,
And sings exultant with the Iron,
For now I know I too am of Thy Chosen...
Oh fashioned in fire--
Needing flame for Thy ultimate word--
Behold me, a cupola
Poured to Thy use!
Heed not my tremulous body
That faints in the grip of Thy gauntlet.
Break it... and cast it aside...
But make of my spirit
That dares and endures
Thy crucible...
Pour through my soul
Thy molten, world-whelming song.
... Here at Thy uttermost gate
Like a new Mary, I wait...
II
Charge the blast furnace, workman...
Open the valves--
Drive the fires high...
(Night is above the gates).
How golden-hot the ore is
From the cupola spurting,
Tossing the flaming petals
Over the silt and furnace ash--
Blown leaves, devastating,
Falling about the world...
Out of the furnace mouth--
Out of the giant mouth--
The raging, turgid, mouth--
Fall fiery blossoms
Gold with the gold of buttercups
In a field at sunset,
Or huskier gold of dandelions,
Warmed in sun-leavings,
Or changing to the paler hue
At the creamy hearts of primroses.
Charge the converter, workman--
Tired from the long night?
But the earth shall suck up darkness--
The earth that holds so much.
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