II

Charge the blast furnace, workman... Open the valves — Drive the fires high... ( Night is above the gates ).

How golden-hot the ore is From the cupola spurting, Tossing the flaming petals Over the silt and furnace ash —

Blown leaves, devastating, Falling about the world... Out of the furnace mouth — Out of the giant mouth —

The raging, turgid, mouth — Fall fiery blossoms Gold with the gold of buttercups In a field at sunset,

Or huskier gold of dandelions, Warmed in sun-leavings, Or changing to the paler hue At the creamy hearts of primroses.

Charge the converter, workman — Tired from the long night? But the earth shall suck up darkness — The earth that holds so much...

And out of these molten flowers, Shall shape the heavy fruit... Then open the valves — Drive the fires high,

Your blossoms nurturing. ( Day is at the gates And a young wind...) Put by your rod, comrade,

And look with me, shading your eyes... Do you not see — Through the lucent haze Out of the converter rising —

In the spirals of fire Smiting and blinding, A shadowy shape White as a flame of sacrifice,

Like a lily swaying?