There was a crying of clear voices, unknown voices,
Beating waves of sound;
A throwing wide of doors and windows,
A whistling of trains, a whirling of wheels.
There was a hastening gaily, furiously,
Of a thousand human forces
Towards the work that gives health and food,
That unfurls a thousand flags to the wind.
All things glittered, palpitated, laughed
In the glory of the morning;
All things seemed to open wings;
Hope and joy gleamed on every visage.
Then I observed him. Powerful was he: his front—
Pale with thought—
Proudly and nobly bore he
On the bronzed neck, free-moving.
Bull neck—breast of the savage—
Bold glance and word;
In his veins the surge of life,
Billows of love and of bravery.
Resounding the footfall! Like a victor
Advanced he in the light;
And my heart murmured:—Is he not a leader?
Amid the pandemonium
Of the workshop, proud in his workman’s blouse,
Does he not tame the monsters
To whom man meted claws and bills,
Soul of flame and thews of steel?
Wells there not within him a fount of vigour,
Leaping, overbearing,
That shall fill with fresh life this languishing age,
Sallow with vice and lack of blood?
Oh blessèd, blessèd to be beloved of him....
To wait for him each evening
Before the frugal board, with all the true
Sweet anxiousness of one who loves and waits.