THE SMITHY OF GOD
Brass-throated sirens, calling folk
To the perilous breakers of din and smoke.
To the perilous breakers of din and smoke.
Clang, as ten thousand vast machines.
Pound and pound, in their pulsed routines,
Throbbing and stunning, with deafening beat,
The tiny humans lost at their feet.
Pound and pound, in their pulsed routines,
Throbbing and stunning, with deafening beat,
The tiny humans lost at their feet.
Clang, and the whistle and whirr of trains,
Rattle of ships unleashed of their chains,
Fire-gongs, horse-trucks' jolts and jars,
Traffic-calls, milk-carts, droning cars. . . .
Rattle of ships unleashed of their chains,
Fire-gongs, horse-trucks' jolts and jars,
Traffic-calls, milk-carts, droning cars. . . .
(A softer strain.)
Clang, and a softer shiver of noise
As school-bells summon the girls and boys;
And a mellower tone, as the churches ring
A people's reverent worshiping.
Clang, and a softer shiver of noise
As school-bells summon the girls and boys;
And a mellower tone, as the churches ring
A people's reverent worshiping.
(Still more softly and drowsily, the last line whispered.)
Clang, and clang, and clang, and clang,
Till a hundred thousand tired feet.
Drag-drag-drag down the evening street,
And gleaming the myriad street-lights hang;
Clang, and clang, and clang, and clang,
Till a hundred thousand tired feet.
Drag-drag-drag down the evening street,
And gleaming the myriad street-lights hang;
32
