III

Light... ( Breaking mists... Hills gliding like hands out of a slipping hold...) Light over the pit mouths,

Streaming in tenuous rays down the black gullets of the Hill... ( The copper, insensate, sleeping in the buried lode. ) Light... Forcing the clogged windows of arsenals...

Probing with long sentient fingers in the copper chips... Gleaming metallic and cold In numberless slivers of steel... Light over the trestles and the iron clips

Of the black bridge — poised like a gigantic spider motionless — Sweet inquisition of light, like a child's wonder... Intrusive, innocently staring light That nothing appals...

Light in the slow fumbling summer leaves, Cooing and calling All winged and avid things Waking the early flies, keen to the scent...

Green-jeweled iridescent flies Unerringly steering — Swarming over the blackened lips, The young day sprays with indiscriminate gold...

Watchman, what of the Hill? Wheels turn; The laden cars Go rumbling to the mill,

And Labor walks beside the mules... All's Well with the Hill!