Is peopled with tall flames like spirits insane.
He strips himself to the heat, not of the jovial sun,
But of the scorch of furnaces; with naked breast
Sweating beneath the iron and blear glass, amid
The hammers’ hammering and the wheels’ roar.
Not with grapes of October trodden underfoot
Spurting juices of ripeness in runnels, his vats
Brim, but with gushes flickered-over and blinding,
Unshapen spilth and blaze of molten ore.
With a finger he lifts the weight of mountain-sides