A PITTSBURGH RIVER

Oily and black is my face, I know,
Fire-bleared and sullen am I;
Blood-streaks of ore-dust scar me and show
Where a long barge has gone by.
Yet I reflect many houses of toil
Where the world's work is forged through;
Where flames and muscle bring metal to boil
While Trade is waiting the brew.
No sunset sends its long shadows of gold
Over my dingy old face;
Only a smoke-streaked glow makes bold,
Lighting the driftwood space.
White-coated craft keep aloof from my rush,
Pleasure craft, modish and trim
As dainty women who shrink when they brush
Workmen's coats, rusty and dim.
Yes, I am homely, oily am I,
Hideous, sullen, and bleared,
Yet I have answered my laborer's cry—
Not yet is my conscience seared.