That surly pants to work some will unknown,
Blowing white breaths—a semaphore
With lifted arm—a form that swings a light
In arcs, against infinitude of gray,
Uneasy sounds, the clink and clank and groan;
Of things inanimate—the curves of rails
In rhythmical convergence gathered up—
(And gathering up what burdens from afar!)
Monotony—monotony—despair!
This is the Gate of the Gray City.