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Gripping his levers his body lurches, grappling his irons he prods and hits,
And deaf with the roll and clangor and rattle with its sharp escaping staccato of steam,
And blind with flame and worn with battle, into his tonnage he turns his dream.
The world he had built rises around us, our wonder cities and weaving rails,
Over his wires a marvel has found us, a glory rides in our wheeled mails,
For the Earth grows small with strong Steel woven, and they come together who plotted apart—
But he who has wrought this thing in his oven knows only toil and the tired heart.
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