The back-bent laborers glance and listen and out through the night the tail-light flares—
Deep in the mills like a tipping cradle the huge converter turns on its wheel
And sizzling spills in the ten-ton ladle a golden water of molten steel.
Yet screwed with toil his low face searches shadow-edged fires and whited pits,
Gripping his levers his body lurches, grappling his irons he prods and hits,
And deaf with the roll and clangor and rattle with its sharp escaping staccato of steam,
And blind with flame and worn with battle, into his tonnage he turns his dream.
The world he has builded rises around us, our wonder-cities and weaving rails,
Over his wires a marvel has found us, a glory rides in our wheeled mails,
For the Earth grows small with strong Steel woven, and they come together who plotted apart—