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... And out of these molten flowers, Shall shape the heavy fruit...

Then open the valves-- Drive the fires high, Your blossoms nurturing. (Day is at the gates And a young wind...)

Put by your rod, comrade, And look with me, shading your eyes... Do you not see-- Through the lucent haze Out of the converter rising-- In the spirals of fire Smiting and blinding, A shadowy shape White as a flame of sacrifice, Like a lily swaying?